


Through The Night

by Rowyna



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Angst, Comfort Sex, Complicated Relationships, Corporal Punishment, Dalish Elves, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Elves, Exalted Plains, F/M, Post-Trespasser, Suicidal Thoughts, Threesome - F/M/M, Unconventional Families, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-06-27 13:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 26,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15685956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowyna/pseuds/Rowyna
Summary: News of Fen'Harel's return has reached Clan Lutharra.  Difficult decisions must be made.This is the third story in the series that begins with "Rabbit", and is set two years in the future, after the events of Trespasser.Tags will expand with the story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "Mercy for the elves who wander through the night  
> Dalish father roams, will the Dalish son survive the fight?"
> 
> \--The Slightest Ones

 "Papae!" 

 The tiny elven girl raced toward them, the top of her flaxen head barely visible above the waving grasses of the Dirth.  Atharil knelt at once, arms outstretched, a wide grin revealing traces of crow's feet at the corners of his blue eyes.  Frey ploughed into him at full speed, nearly knocking him over as he laughed and swept her up into a tight embrace. 

 Beside them, Ryneth smiled.  Watching Atharil's face light up at the sight of his daughter was one of the best parts of returning home after a long hunt.  The passage of years had softened the hunter's sorrow at Freylen's loss, but the elf had never quite returned to his former self after that night.  He was quieter now, more hesitant to smile, but also slower to anger.  It was as though all the rough edges had been scoured away, leaving behind a man who rarely showed strong emotions about anything.  Except his daughter, which was why Ryneth so loved to watch them together.

 "What did you learn today, da'len?"  He shifted the child in his arms, and she crawled over him to perch on his shoulders, small fists gripping his braided hair.  Atharil held onto her by one ankle, wincing slightly as she made herself comfortable.

 "Hahren Feyndir told us a story.  He said Elgeron made the stars!"  She giggled at the idea.

 "Elgar'nan," Atharil corrected her gently, giving the bottom of her bare foot a tickle.  The pink sole was brown with dust.  "Elgar'nan fought with his father, the sun, and the sun's blood became the stars you see in the night sky."

 Ryneth winced slightly.  Once, she might also have laughed at the implausibility of the elven creation myths.  Ever since Mythal had revealed herself two years ago, however, none of the stories seemed quite so unlikely as to warrant scoffing.

 "That's a rather violent tale for Feyndir to be telling the little ones."  She shielded her eyes against the setting sun, scanning the horizon, and spotted her bond-mate walking out to meet them, the crimson sails of Clan Lutharra's aravels bright against the sunset behind him.  He was leading Hugo by the hand, the elf-blooded boy already a head taller than Frey despite being nearly the same age.  He had his father's dark hair and deep blue eyes, but beyond that the only sign the two were family was the clan-marked clothing they both wore.

 "It is a Dalish story; did you really expect anything else?"  Atharil gave his daughter's leg a tug.  "You did not greet Ryneth, da'len."

 "Aneth ara, Mamae Ryn."  Frey folded her small arms, cross at having her mistake pointed out, her violet eyes narrowing. 

 Ryneth grinned.  "Good evening, sweetheart."  She turned then and stepped into Feyndir's arms, pausing to ruffle their son's thick hair.  Hugo grunted and looked away, and she sighed.  One day soon, she kept telling herself; one day soon the boy would begin speaking.

 "The People will eat well tonight, I see."  Feyndir smiled as he eyed the snoufleur carcass draped over the back of their horse, but there was worry in his large eyes.  Ryneth stiffened at once.

 "What is it?"  She cupped her hand to his cheek, and he leaned against her palm for a moment before answering.

 "Inquisition emissaries visited the camp yesterday," he said at last.  "They arrived shortly after you set out."

 "Lavellan's people again?"  Aharil shook his head.  "And which member of our pantheon has crawled out from the mists of history this time?"  Feyndir stared at him in silence until the smirk died on his face.  "Well, shit."

  
   
 By their Keeper's order, every member of the clan who'd received a vallaslin gathered around the main campfire that evening, curious to hear what news the Inquisition had brought.  The Dalish muttered amongst themselves, some of them pacing anxiously while others sat huddled on the wide logs around the flames.  Those seated leaned their heads together and spoke in low tones, eyeing Tirsas warily, sensing he was once again about to reveal something that would threaten the foundations of their culture and way of life.

 Ryneth was, of course, also expected at the gathering, despite the fact that her face remained unmarked.  Tirsas had never relented on his decision in that matter, and Feyndir had to admit he was now glad of it.  One fewer person to bear the burden of a misremembered past.

 "Stay close to me, rabbit," he instructed, guiding her through the crowd of impatient and worried elves.  He had dressed in his best clothing to reflect the importance of the evening -- a mage's robes recovered from the depths of an elven ruin, light and flowing and impossibly strong, the striped material seemingly unaffected by the passage of years.  "Promise me you won't leave my side, whatever happens."

 She gripped his hand tighter as they made their way to where Tirsas was seated, perched on a thick druffalo hide draped over a log.  The Keeper's back was straight as an arrow, his expression inscrutable, but his face pale and drawn.  He nodded briefly to his First as they approached.

 "Feyndir, you're starting to frighten me."  She pulled at his arm, slowing him down.  "You didn't let Hugo stay with the hahrens --"

 "He's better off in our own aravel tonight.  Arinna will mind him until we return."

 " -- and now you speak as though you're afraid of our own people."  She looked up at him, her brow knit.  "What did those messengers say, to cause you such concern?"

 "You will find out soon, along with everyone else."  He kissed her forehead.  "I'm sure everything will be fine.  I'm just being cautious."

 She frowned.  "That's hardly comforting.  Those sound more like famous last words."

 He smiled sympathetically.  "Our people are nothing if not resilient, vhenan.  We have already weathered the shock of Mythal's reappearance; we will weather this, too.  You'll see."

 

 "Lies!"  The elderly elf stood up from his seat near the fire, his voice shaking with emotion.  "The Dread Wolf is a trickster, and now he seeks to paint himself as a hero?"  He spat on the ground.

 "He never called himself a hero."  The woman stood at the back of the crowd, but her voice carried over the muttering of her fellows.  "The Inquisitor saw the evidence of his acts for herself.  He turned his temple into a sanctuary for our people!"

 "Let the Old Wolf conjure whatever he likes.  Clan Lavellan may accept his deceptions as truth, but we cannot afford to be so gullible!"

 Tirsas cleared his throat.  "As I've said, Fen'Harel was apparently at the Inquisitor's side throughout her campaign to close the Breach, though she was not aware of his true identity until recently.  She worked closely with him, and it's her opinion that --"

 "How closely, I wonder?"  There was widespread nodding and murmuring at the insinuation.  "It seems to me that the Dread Wolf seduced her, Keeper."

 "I...."  Tirsas seemed at a loss.  "I couldn't say.  The messengers only mentioned that they were close, that he demonstrated to her how he removed slave markings from the faces of the ancient elves."

 The old man snorted.  "One falsehood upon another.  Don't you see, Keeper?  Fen'Harel hates our vallaslin because they remind him that we are still faithful to the gods he betrayed. He seeks, with his poisoned tongue, to achieve what the shemlen could not -- to turn us from our Creators!"

 Shouts erupted from both sides at these words, the Dalish rising to their feet and shaking thin fists at one another as some defended and others raged against the ancient being Inquisitor Lavellan had known simply as Solas.  Tirsas stood up and raised his hands for silence, but was largely ignored.  He looked to his First, eyes wide.

 "My brothers and sisters!"  Feyndir hopped onto the log and turned his staff over his head, drawing an orangish magic to its tip.  "We must not fight amongst ourselves!"

 "The Dread Wolf has finally come to save us from the shemlen!  His slow arrow falls at last!"  A red-haired woman pointed one long finger at Ryneth.  "He will wipe them from this world like the plague they are!"

 Feyndir stepped between his wife and the angry elf, a scowl deepening the lines of his vallaslin.  "Guard your tongue, Lianni.  Since when do you speak for the Dread Wolf?"

 "Since when does a Dalish First bond himself to a human?"  A man appeared at the woman's side, sneering.  "Put aside your fancy robes, harellan; you have no authority to lead the People."

 Feyndir could feel Ryneth pushing at his outstretched arm from behind, determined to confront their accusers.  At the same time, he could see other Dalish moving in to support those who objected to her very presence.  He turned quickly and took her by the shoulders, risking his back to the gathering throng.

 "Run to our aravel, rabbit."  He forced himself to speak evenly, to keep his voice low.  "Lock yourself inside with Hugo, and don't open the door for anyone until I fetch you."

 "But you told me to stay close...."  Her eyes were wide with panic; she clutched at his shirtsleeves.  "Vhenan, I don't want to --"

 He shook her once, hard.  "If you stay here you'll become a target, Ryneth.  Something on which they can focus all their fear and uncertainty.  I should have seen it sooner, but I'd hoped...it doesn't matter now.  Just go!"


	2. Chapter 2

 Ryneth stumbled through the empty camp, weaving among darkened tents and silent aravals, her legs weak beneath her.  From behind her there was more shouting, followed swiftly by a crackle of magic that set her teeth on edge.  She pulled her skirts around her and hurried away from it, wishing she were still wearing her hunter's armor.

 "Ryneth!"

 Startled, she gave a tiny squeak before realizing the voice belonged to Atharil.  The pale elf stepped out of the shadows as quietly as a ghost and Ryneth started toward him, choking back a sob of relief.  Then, suddenly, she stopped.  And then, hesitant, she took a step backward.

 Atharil frowned, his large eyes glinting preternaturally in the darkness.  "Surely you know I am not your enemy, lethallan."

 "Do I?  And what about them?"  She jutted her chin in the direction of the bonfire, where raised voices still rang out.  

 "Most of them aren't, either.  Not truly."  He shook his head, his face crumpling slightly.  "They are merely...confused.  Confused and in pain."  More yelling, and the sounds were closer now.  "Feyndir sent you to join Hugo, I assume?"

 She nodded. 

 "Right.  Let's get you to your son, then."  He took a step toward her.  "If you'll allow me, that is."

 She swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.  "Ir abelas, Atharil.  I shouldn't have doubted you."

 "Hush.  Tel'abelas."  
 

  
 When they told her what was happening, Arinna looked nearly as terrified as Ryneth felt.  The young Second quickly hopped out of the aravel, her staff already glowing in her hand.

 "Where do you think you're going?"  Ryneth tried to catch her arm, but the girl was too fast.

 "To my people.  Tirsas and Feyndir need me."

 Atharil nodded his agreement, much to Ryneth's dismay.  "Let her go," he said, watching as the novice mage raced off toward the fray.  "It's her place to help."

 "And where is my place?  Do I even have one anymore?"  She felt her lip trembling, and bit it.  "Did I ever, really?"

 "Of course you did, and you still do."  He glanced over his shoulder.  "But right now, your only responsibility is to keep yourself and Hugo safe.  Guard your da'len, and let Feyndir and I take care of the rest."  Impetuously, he leaned in and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead.  "Everything will be all right, I promise you."

 

 Hugo was asleep, curled into a ball on the bed, his back pressed to the aravel's curving side.  Ryneth sat down beside him as gently as she could, her hands clasped together in front of her.  It was dark inside the landship, the only light a sliver of moonlight that shone in through one small, round window.  She sat still, and she waited, and she listened.

 For a few minutes, everything was quiet.  The walls of the aravel were thick, and the shouting was far enough away that for a time it seemed the camp had quieted.  Then the noises returned, and Ryneth realized that some of the clan had separated from the others and were making their way toward her.  She stood up quickly and reached for her dagger, turning to face the narrow door.

 A new sound met her ears then, a scurrying movement like mice in a cupboard.  Ryneth looked about, and with a shock recognized the sound of feet above her head.  Someone had climbed atop the aravel.

 "That's far enough!"  Atharil's voice carried, muffled, through the ship's ceiling.  "Stay back!"  
   
 "Lethallin!"  There was a wild, jovial fury in the man's voice.  "We've come for Feyndir's shems.  Stand aside, unless you mean to fire on your own clansmen."

 "These people are my clansmen, too, and this is their home.  I will not allow you to assault it.  Put the torches down!"

 Ryneth gasped as she realized the elves meant to burn the aravel with her and Hugo inside.  Angry tears sprang to her eyes, and her grip tightened on the handle of her blade.  After everything she'd done for the Dalish, after all the years she'd lived among them, they would still turn on her at the first whisper of an elven uprising?  _You'll never be an elf, daughter. _Sean's words haunted her.  He was right -- she would always be an outsider here, no matter how she dressed or who she loved or what gods she worshipped.__

____

____

 There was murmuring at Atharil's words, followed by brief laughter.  "Tell the truth, Atharil; you know this woman and her brat don't belong among the People.  You're only standing in our way because you're besotted with her yourself."

____

____

 A single board creaked as the hunter shifted his weight, and Ryneth knew Atharil was drawing his bow.  She reached up a tentative hand and placed her palm against the smooth wood just below his feet, holding her breath.

____

____

 "I will not warn you again."  Atharil's voice had gone flat.  She prayed to every god and none in particular that the others would listen to him.

____

____

 "She is destroying Feyndir's line."  The man's voice grew clearer as he continued to draw nearer, and now Ryneth recognized him as Cam, one of the clan's leatherworkers.  With a sick feeling, she recalled him fitting her for a new pair of greaves the previous month.  "When the Dread Wolf comes, we must not let him find our leaders corrupted by --"

____

____

 Ryneth strained her ears, but the man made no further sounds.  Atharil's release had been so fluid that the aravel's deck hadn't even registered the movement, and his shot so clean the man had died on his feet. 

____

__

 In horror, she withdrew her hand from the ceiling.  There was no greater crime among the Dalish than killing one of their own; it was one of the few offenses for which the penalty was not only death, but the denial of a proper burial.  The bodies of murderers were left to be scavenged by animals or even reanimated by demons, as befitted the gravity of their sin.  
   
 Cam's companions must have been as shocked as Ryneth was.  She thought she heard one of them mutter "harellan" as they hastily withdrew, but she wasn't sure.  Atharil followed soon after, the aravel wobbling slightly as he leapt down from the roof and was gone.  In his absence the night closed in, tense and silent. 

____

____

 Ryneth kept her dagger in hand as she crawled onto the bed beside Hugo.  The little boy had thankfully slept through everything, and for a long time she lay there listening to his even breathing and trying to calm her pounding heart, tears falling soundlessly onto her pillow in the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

 "Rabbit."

 She started from slumber, her hand reaching instinctively for her son.

 "Hugo is with the Keeper."  Seated beside her on the bed, Feyndir reached over and pried the dagger gently from her hand as he spoke.  There was a smear of blood across his forehead, but she didn't think it was his own.

 "What?"  Ryneth sat up, blinking.  Her eyelids felt stiff with dried tears.  "Why?"

 "Because Tirsas is the strongest mage we have."  Atharil stood with his arms crossed, the moonlight hollowing out his cheekbones.  It was still night.  "Things have calmed down, but...."

 "He should be with me!"  She started to get up, but Feyndir stopped her. 

 "Vhenan, he's safe.  You know how fond the Keeper is of him."  It was true; as much as Tirsas had initially resisted getting to know the human child, taking Feyndir as his First had meant spending a considerable amount of time with the boy.  It was a well-known secret that the Keeper doted on Hugo now, even teaching him bits of elven writing when no one was looking so that he might communicate without speech.

 Ryneth shook her head.  "Hugo and I won't be safe as long as we're among the Dalish."  She laid a hand on his, seized by a sudden panic.  "Take me home, Feyndir.  Please."

 Feyndir looked stricken.  "I cannot do that, my love.  We are several days' ride from your father's farm --"

 "-- and that isn't your home, anyway."  Atharil sat down on the other side of her.  "You are home already."

 Ryneth felt fresh tears welling up, and blinked them back.  "You killed Cam, didn't you?" 

 The elves exchanged a look.

 "Atharil did what was necessary," Feyndir said finally.  "But we can talk about that later.  Right now, you need rest."

 She ignored him.  "What will happen?  What did Tirsas say?"

 Atharil smiled wryly.  "Our Keeper has called for a cooling-off period.  He won't make any decisions until tomorrow night."

 "There were several fights," Feyndir explained, "though Cam's was the only death.  I will speak to the Keeper about it at length tomorrow; I'm sure he'll see Atharil had no choice."

 The hunter nodded.  "I'll be fine, lethallan.  Don't worry."  He shifted uneasily and glanced toward the door.  "It has been a long night...."

 Feyndir studied him a long moment.  "Remain with us, Atharil," he said finally.  "We could use the comfort, and I suspect you could, too."

 Ryneth felt her breath hitch.  The Dalish sometimes slept in groups in times of distress; it was a practice she'd first encountered back when Feyndir had been taken captive by Venatori.  On the surface, then, there was nothing particularly unusual about the suggestion that they do so now.

 Atharil glanced from one of them to the other.  "I don't know..." he began.

 Feyndir sighed, exasperated.  "Ryneth is upset, lethallin.  Will you not stay for her sake, even?"

 The hunter turned his gaze on her properly then, a question in his brilliant eyes.  Ryneth could feel herself blushing under his scrutiny, and was forced to look away. 

 Feyndir grunted.  "It's settled, then."  He shrugged out of his mage's coat and hung it on a nearby peg.  "Don't sit there staring, Atharil.  Undress."

 

 They actually slept for a time.  Exhausted and overwhelmed by all they'd learned and everything that had happened, they curled into one another between soft furs and thick blankets, Feyndir's hand resting on Ryneth's hip, Atharil's arm loose about her waist.  They breathed one another's exhalations, the bowed walls of the aravel close about them, and wrapped in each others' embrace they found a temporary refuge from both the revelations of the past and the uncertainties of the future.

 When they awoke again, it was in pitch darkness.  The moon had set, and Ryneth could feel someone planting quiet kisses along  the length of her neck.  Still half-asleep, she lay still, trying to decipher whose leg was thrown over hers, whose heartbeat was quickening in the ribcage beneath her hand.  She was between the two elves, their similar scents of pine needles and honey mingling in her nose, their warmth a cushion between her and the outside world. 

 Soft lips closed over hers then, and Ryneth recognized them at once as Feyndir's.  She returned his kiss gratefully, and as she melted into it she felt Atharil shifting his weight behind her.  The hunter turned his attention to her shoulder, his teeth grazing her exposed flesh, his breath hot against her skin.  A shiver ran through her,  and she moaned into Feyndir's mouth.  A hand pressed the small of her back in response.  Another slipped between her legs, and she'd no idea which belonged to whom, and she found it no longer made a difference.

 The three of them moved together with a measured tenderness, gradually shedding their remaining clothing beneath the blankets, their careful lovemaking an exercise in both restraint and generosity.  Feyndir and Atharil showed little to no interest in one another, yet neither did they shy away from the occasional, inevitable contact.  In fact, both elves seemed so entirely comfortable that Ryneth began to sense it wasn't the first time they'd shared a partner.  It was a fact either of them might have mentioned much sooner, she reflected with a trace of irritation just as Atharil groaned and rolled her beneath him.  But then Feyndir let his tongue slide along the ridge of her ear, his hand gently cupping her breast as his friend rolled his hips against hers, and she promptly forgave them both.


	4. Chapter 4

 The next day, Ryneth dug a dress from the very bottom of her drawer and pulled it on over her head.  She smoothed the front, relieved to see it still more-or-less fit, and looked up to find Feyndir watching her from the bed.

 "What are you doing, rabbit?"  He was propped on one elbow, his dark hair falling loose over his bare chest.

 "Getting dressed."

 "In old human rags you haven't worn in years?"

 "Yes."

 He patted the bed beside him, and she sat down with a flounce.  He took her hand and kissed it.  "If you want to wear shemlen clothing --"

 " _Human _clothing.  'Shemlen' is a slur."__

____

____

 "Ir abelas, of course.  If you wish to wear human clothing, I will find a friendly merchant and trade for a new dress.  But please don't wear that; it's in tatters."

____

____

 "I don't care."

____

____

 "Ryneth...."  He sighed and flopped back onto the pillows.  "Today is going to be difficult enough.  If the People see you in that --"

____

____

 She crossed her arms.  "They won't see me, because I'm not leaving this aravel."

____

____

 He rubbed his eyes.  "Yes, you are.  You have to show them you're not afraid, that you are still one of us."

____

____

 "I'm not one of you.  I thought I was, but l was mistaken."

____

____

 "Rabbit...."

____

____

 "No!"  She stood up, slipping out of his grasp as he reached for her.  "I'm not Dalish, and I never was.  I'm just some idiot human everyone hates and wishes would --"

____

____

 "Rabbit."  His tone was sharp enough to give her pause.

____

____

 "What?"

____

____

 "Open the door."

____

____

 "What?  Why?"

____

____

 He sat up and swung his legs around, reaching for his own clothes.  "Just do it."

____

____

 Ryneth shot him a suspicious look, but grudgingly complied.  She pushed the aravel's small door outward, and gasped.

____

____

 "What is all this?"

____

____

 He pulled on a pair of pants and came to stand behind her, his chin resting on her shoulder.  "That is an apology.  The People are ashamed, and ask your forgiveness."

____

____

 Ryneth clapped a hand over her heart, overwhelmed by the outpouring of gifts that had been left outside their door.  "You knew this was here?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly.

____

____

 He kissed her jawline and chuckled.  "I may have heard Atharil tripping over it earlier as he attempted to make a discreet exit."

____

____

 She stroked his arm, suddenly shy.  "We should probably talk about...about that, shouldn't we?"

____

____

 "What would you like to say about it?"

____

____

 She considered a moment.  "You aren't upset?"

____

____

 "It was my idea.  It would be unfair of me to be unhappy about it now."

____

____

 "It wouldn't be unfair at all."  She turned, searching his face.  "You're my husband, my bond-mate -- I don't want to do anything that hurts you.  I love you."

____

____

 Feyndir smiled.  "I know you do, rabbit.  But I think you also love Atharil.  I suppose I love him, too, when it comes to it."  He shrugged.  "Though not in precisely the same way." 

____

____

 Ryneth nodded, trying to make sense of that.  "So you really don't mind, then?"

____

____

 He was silent a moment.  "I cannot say I feel no jealousy at all," he admitted at last, "but I hate seeing Atharil alone.  Freylen would want me to look after him, I think.  And since his daughter already regards you as a mother, I think we might all come to some kind of...arrangement.  If Atharil will allow it."

____

____

 "He still believes Andruil can act through him."

____

____

 Feyndir sighed.  "I know, and with one Creator after another reasserting themselves, it will be difficult to convince him his fears are unfounded.  Tirsas and I have both tried, but he insists he sometimes feels the Huntress looking through his eyes."

____

____

 

____

____

 They went to see the Keeper after breakfast.  Tirsas had Hugo on his lap, the little boy playing so intently with a puzzle box that he didn't even look up as his parents entered the tent.

____

____

 "Ryneth."

____

____

 "Andaran atish'an, Keeper."

____

____

 He waved a hand at her, dismissing her formal greeting.  "I am truly sorry, da'len.  What happened last night was my responsibility entirely.  If Atharil hadn't been there...."

____

____

 "Does that mean he's off the hook?"  Feyndir dropped to his knees beside the Keeper, reaching out with one hand to stroke his son's arm.

____

____

 Tirsas grimaced.  "Officially, no.  Cam's family are calling for blood, and with so much tension in the camp I cannot simply dismiss what Atharil has done, much as I might wish to."  He shook his head.  "I'll have to come up with some kind of compromise that's acceptable to everyone.  It's not fair, but perhaps if you explained things...."  He looked hopefully from Feyndir to Ryneth, dark circles evident beneath his large eyes.

____

____

 Ryneth sighed.  "I'll speak to him.  Knowing Atharil, he'll accept whatever consequence is necessary to keep the clan from tearing itself apart."  She raised an eyebrow.  "Though what he deserves is praise, not punishment.  He saved my life, and Hugo's."

____

____

 Tirsas looked chagrined.  "I know.  I can only promise you I will be as lenient as possible, and I'll find a way to make this up to him in the future."

____

____

 Feyndir smiled faintly.  "Knowing his Keeper is going to owe him a favor should cheer him considerably."

____

____

 Tirsas rolled his eyes.  "And I'm sure he won't find a way to exploit that situation."  He turned to Ryneth.  "He was headed down to the river when I saw him last.  If you're headed that way, take Nahari with you."

____

____

 "Oh, I don't think that's --"  She stopped short as both Feyndir and Tirsas fixed her with stern looks.  "Fine, fine.  A bodyguard it is, then.  Stupid Dread Wolf."

____

____

 Feyndir snorted.  "Nahari can only protect you from idiots like Cam, vhenan.  In the unlikely event Fen'Harel himself shows up, I suggest you both run."

____

____

 


	5. Chapter 5

 Atharil was sitting on a wide, flat rock beside the river, his knees pulled up to his chest, his callused feet crossed.  He wore only a thin linen undershirt and leggings, the rest of his clothing folded neatly and placed beside his bow and quiver on the ground.  His long blond hair hung damp against his back. 

 "Been swimming?"

 He whirled around, one hand closing on the dagger at his side. 

 "Creators, Ryneth, you startled me!"  He nodded to her companion.  "Aneth ara, Nahari."

 The elven woman touched Ryneth's arm.  "I'm going for a walk," she said with a smile.  "Let me know when you're ready to leave; I won't be far."

 Atharil watched her go with a wry smile.  "At least you didn't come alone."

 Ryneth shrugged.  "It was Tirsas' idea."  She climbed onto the rock and sat down beside him.  "I spoke with him about Cam.  He said he has to give the appearance of disapproval, but --"

 "I'm sorry."

 "What?"  She blinked in confusion.  "I'd be dead if you hadn't stopped him, Atharil."

 "Not about that."  He gave a mirthless laugh.  "About what happened after."

 "Oh."  She was quiet for a moment.  The river ran on, the sound of rushing water filling the awkward silence between them.  "Why?"

 "Where do I start?  I swore I wouldn't risk bringing you to Andruil's attention, for one thing."  He shook his head at her dismissive snort.  "I know.  But it's more than that, letha--  Fenedhis.  I don't even know what to call you now.  Shall I say 'vhenan'?  You are Feyndir's heart; you cannot be mine, as well."

 She studied her hands.  "Feyndir said we might work something out...."

 Atharil ran long fingers through his drying hair.  "Of course he did.  He's a better man than I am, Ryneth.  He always has been."

 She put a tentative hand on his arm.  "He is a good man, but so are you."

 "No."  He offered her a lopsided smile.  "I'm only good at being Dalish.  Or I was, anyway.  Everything used to be so much simpler."

 "Perhaps I should be apologizing to you, then.  I didn't mean to cause you an identity crisis."

 He took her hand, his palm cool and damp.  "I can no longer worship any of the Creators, Ryneth.  If what this Solas says is true, none of them are truly gods, anyway.  But even if they are...."  He shivered.  "They are not beings I wish to follow anymore."

 "I don't think you're going to find yourself alone in those feelings, Atharil."  She squeezed his hand.  "Many of the People might agree with you once the dust settles."

 "But what am I, then?  If I forsake my beliefs, if I lay with...with _you _, then what separates me from the flat-ears?  Perhaps I should be in a alienage after all."__

____

____

 "Stop."  Ryneth cupped the hunter's face in her hands, the fire-scarred skin of his cheek rough against her fingertips.  "Whatever comes, you will never belong in a ghetto, Atharil.  You are the last of the elvhen, and you must not submit."

____

____

 He leaned in and kissed her, a quick peck that belied his uncertainty with their new relationship.  "Thank you.  That's comforting to hear, even coming from someone dressed like a Denerim housewife."

____

____

 "How would you know?"  She laughed and released him.  "You've never even been to Denerim."

____

____

 "True.  I saw the walls from a distance once, though."  He sighed.  "Why _are _you wearing that?"__

_____ _

_____ _

 She shrugged.  "Does it bother you to see me in human clothing?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil fixed her with a long look.  "No...yes.  Maybe."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Maybe that's why I'm wearing it, then."

_____ _

_____ _

 He winced.  "It is difficult for me to think of you that way, I admit.  As one of _them _."__

_____ _

_____ _

 She smoothed the faded fabric absently.  "This dress is worn, but Feyndir says he'll get me a new one.  I haven't decided yet whether I want him to."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil nodded.  "You should wear whatever makes you comfortable, Ryneth.  Truly.  You are beautiful, regardless."  A sudden smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth noticed it and rolled her eyes.  "Go on.  Get it out, whatever you're thinking."

_____ _

_____ _

 "You look best without any clothes at all."  The smirk widened into a rare, mischievous grin.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Feel better?"

_____ _

_____ _

 "I do, actually.  I could almost forget Fen'Harel is out there somewhere, making plans to tear down the Veil and flood the world with spirits."

_____ _

_____ _

 Despite herself, she laughed.  "He thinks it will help the People."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Then he has a strange concept of 'helping'."  Atharil picked up a pebble and chucked it into the water.  "Unless he means to distract us from our problems by supplying us with new, worse ones."

_____ _

_____ _

 She was quiet a moment.  "If he succeeds, you might regain your immortality, Atharil.  Imagine never growing old, or getting sick, or --"

_____ _

_____ _

 "And what about you?  What would happen to you and Hugo in that world?"  He looked down at his hands, his brow furrowing.  "I might become a mage."

_____ _

_____ _

 "Try not to worry."  She patted his arm.  "We don't know for sure what will happen to either of us if the Veil comes down, and if the Inquisitor has her way we'll never find out."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil gave her a dubious look.  "The one-armed elf who no longer has a magical mark, you mean?  You think she can stop a Creator who turns people to stone with his mind?"

_____ _

_____ _

 Ryneth blanched.  "Well, not when you put it that way."

_____ _

_____ _

 He wrapped an arm about her shoulders.  "Ir abelas.  You are correct not to panic; there's been too much of that already.  Besides, no one has caught so much as a glimpse of Mythal since her return.  We can hope the Dread Wolf remains equally elusive."


	6. Chapter 6

 Feyndir smoothed the front of his robes as he took his place beside Tirsas.  "Well, here we are again."

 The Keeper frowned, studying his clan gathered once more around the evening fire.  Some looked uneasy, others sullen.  A few clenched angry fists to their sides, their eyes glinting as they stole sideways glances at their fellows.  "Where is your wife tonight?"

 "With Atharil."  Feyndir nodded across the flames at the hunter, who stood with his arms crossed beside Ryneth.  She had changed back into Dalish clothing for the gathering; whether that had been her own idea, he wasn't certain.

 "Should she be here, after what happened last night?"

 Feyndir sighed.  "I am your First, and she is my bond-mate.  It won't do for her to hide."

 The Keeper considered.  "Hugo is safe, at least.  I set the wards myself."

 "And I strengthened them."  He smiled at Tirsas' surprise.  "Don't worry; you are still the superior mage, hahren.  But when family is involved...well.  Emotion can sometimes bolster a mage's connection to the Fade."

  Tirsas grunted.  "Be careful.  Emotion also attracts demons."

 "You don't need to remind me of that."

 "No, I suppose I don't."  The Keeper clapped him on the shoulder and turned to the assembly.  "If any of you have brought weapons here tonight, this is your last chance to return them to your tents." 

 There was some grumbling at his words, and a few of the elves near the back of the gathering slipped away into the darkness.  Tirsas waited a moment before clearing his throat and addressing the clan again.

 "Clan Lutharra," he began, his voice echoing off the circled aravels and pillared rocks just beyond the firelight, "I know the news the Inquisition brought troubles your hearts, but we cannot afford to let our disagreements divide us as they did last night.  To that end, I have gathered the names of several people who were involved in fights last night.  I will be assigning each of them extra duties to remind them of their responsibilities to care for one another."  He glanced at Feyndir apologetically.  "But one incident stands out above the rest, and that is the regrettable death of our dear brother, Cam."

 The craftsman's widow let out a loud sob at the Keeper's words, and Atharil shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.  Feyndir took a deep breath, and Ryneth realized with a jolt that he was going to pronounce the sentence himself.  It made a terrible kind of sense -- Atharil was Feyndir's closest friend, and had acted in defence of his family.  Feyndir needed to be seen publicly condemning the killing to avoid the appearance of leniency.

 "The punishment for murdering one of our own is death, as you all know."  The First looked around slowly, measuring the crowd's mood.  The Dalish had fallen silent, watching him with wary eyes.  "But Cam was also threatening Dalish lives when Atharil's arrow pierced him."

 "It was only talk."  Cam's son stood beside his mother.  His face was still unmarked, but he was nearly a man.  "Papae was just angry.  Atharil didn't need to kill him!"

 "We cannot know what your father might have done," Tirsas told the youth quietly.  "We can only know what he said he would do."

 Feyndir nodded.  "That is why it's our decision that Atharil's life should not be forfeit." 

 There was disgruntled murmuring from those who supported Cam's family.  Feyndir ignored them, instead meeting the hunter's gaze evenly before continuing. 

 "Yet our clansman's death cannot go unanswered.  Atharil must accept responsibility for what was, perhaps, a hasty and poorly-considered decision."  He hesitated, then continued in a rush.  "He is to be tied to a tree and whipped.  Afterwards, he will be allowed to resume his place among the People.  No one will ever again speak of what he has done."

 

 There was an immediate outcry, both by those who felt the hunter's punishment was too lenient, as well as by those who objected to him being punished at all.  Ryneth felt faint.  She'd been with the clan long enough to have seen the Keeper mete out all sorts of inventive and occasionally cruel penalties, but never had she known the Dalish to inflict physical discipline.  She reached for Atharil's hand as the clan shouted around them.

 "Don't worry.  I won't let them do this to you!"

 He turned, offering her a wry smile.  "You need to.  It was my idea."

 A surge of anger rushed through her, and she suddenly felt like hitting him herself.  "Why would you ever suggest such a thing?  This is not the Dalish way.  I expected you might be banished for a time, or be forced to beg forgiveness, or...or something like that.  Not this." 

 Atharil nodded.  "You find it shocking, then?"

 She stared at him.  "Of course I do."

 "Good.  The penalty must be harsh enough to make those who side with me just as unhappy as those who want me dead.  That's what makes it a good compromise."

 "But Atharil...."  She reached out to touch his cheek, but he turned his face away.

 "You should not be seen showing me affection right now."

 Ryneth swallowed hard, blinking away tears.  Atharil shook his head in sympathy.  "If Elodie could bear it, then so can I.  Don't worry for me."

 She scowled.  "So that's where you got the idea."

 "Ir abelas.  I did not choose this to upset you."

 The clan's objections were growing louder, the elves' voices rising even as Tirsas and Feyndir called for order, their staffs flickering with magic as if in warning.  Now Atharil stepped towards the Keeper and the assembly quieted slightly, pressing close to hear how he would respond.

 "Your judgement is merciful, hahren," he said loudly, kneeling before the Keeper.  "Let it happen as you command."

 A howl followed Atharil's words, and though the sound was not unusual on the plains, its proximity and mournful tone sent a chill through the gathering.  Another cry followed it, and another, each from a different direction.  It was as if a pack was circling the encampment, preparing to attack.

 Atharil rose to his feet uncertainly.  "Wolves?  They dare to draw so close to camp?"

 The color drained from Feyndir's face.  "Oh, let it be merely wolves...."

 But If it was actual animals that made the sounds, none of the Dalish ever saw them.  Instead, Clan Lutharra soon faced unexpected visitors for the second time in three days.


	7. Chapter 7

 Barriers followed the otherworldly howling.  Shimmering briefly against the night sky, they settled over the entire encampment, creating an invisible dome of protection larger than any of the Dalish had ever seen.  The elves clutched at one another in fear and amazement, their large eyes turned upward.  The howling continued, rising in volume, until the last spell was completed, and then stopped as abruptly as it had begun.  In stunned silence, the clan waited to see what would happen next.

 For a few moments, all was still.  The evening breeze had been muffled by the barriers, and the only sound was the occasional crackling of the communal fire.  Atharil returned hesitantly to Ryneth's side, and Feyndir and Tirsas began discreetly summoning Fade energy to their staffs.

 "The Dread Wolf sends his greetings."  The pair of elves who emerged from the darkness were bare-faced and tall, their footfalls so light they made the Dalish hunters seem clumsy in comparison.  Their clothing was non-descript but of good quality, and showed no signs of wear or dirt.  One of them had an odd, faintly greenish tinge to his complexion, but his companion's skin was a warm tan.

 "Andaran atish'an."  Tirsas first tipped his head to the men then, uncertain what the occasion called for, bent a knee.  "Clan Lutharra welcomes you."

 Feyndir followed his Keeper's example and knelt, though it rankled him to show deference to what were clearly agents of Fen'Harel.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see most of the other Dalish also falling to their knees.  A few even lowered their foreheads to the ground, whether in terror, respect, or reverence he couldn't tell.

 "Please, rise.  There is no need for such displays."  The tan elf spoke with an accent Feyndir couldn't immediately place.  Then, with a start, he realized he was hearing someone accustomed to speaking only elven.  The thought was unexpectedly painful, and he felt an irrational pang of jealousy.

 The greenish elf nodded his agreement, motioning gracefully to the Dalish.  "On your feet, lethallen.  Fen'Harel is no god, and we are merely his messengers.  We apologize for interrupting your...spirited gathering, and request a few minutes of your attention."

 Feyndir studied the ancient elves as he rose to his feet, noting the tight, simple braids in their long hair, the small gold rings in their ears.  Were their ears longer, narrower than his own, or was it just his imagination?  Their noses were flatter, he was fairly certain of that.

 Tirsas brushed the dust from his robes, his hand shaking only slightly.  "The Inquisition advised me we might be approached by representatives of the Dread Wolf in the weeks following their visit, but I admit I was not prepared for you to arrive so closely upon their heels." 

 The green-tinged elf smiled.  "We have been shadowing the group led by the durgen'len Harding.  It's much simpler for us to hang back and allow the Inquisition's scouts to locate your clans and handle the bulk of the explanations.  The Inquisitor's version of events is generally accurate and complementary to our cause."  He placed a long-fingered hand on his chest, a ring gleaming on his second finger.  "I call myself Sulevin."

 Tirsas nodded.  "I am Tirsas, Keeper of Clan Lutharra.  This is my First, Feyndir."

 Feyndir inclined his head, but could not keep his eyes from straying past the elf to where Ryneth stood clutching Atharil's arm, her eyes wide with shock.

 Sulevin tracked his gaze.  "The human woman is part of this group?"

 "She is my wife."  Feyndir briefly considered lying, but decided against it.  He doubted anyone in the Dread Wolf's service would be easily fooled.

 The ancient elves glanced at one another, conferring with a look.

 "She is bound to him," the tan one said finally.  "She poses little risk."

 Feyndir paled at the implication.  "She poses none at all," he agreed quickly.  "She is as one of us."

 Sulevin's nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly.  "As you say."

 Tirsas cleared his throat.  "Shall we speak in private, then, or...?"  
   
 "No."  Sulevin clasped his hands behind his back and turned about, addressing the entire clan in a clear voice.  "Fen'Harel's message is for all of you, and it is a simple one.  He seeks to restore the elvhen people, and to dismantle the Veil that artificially separates this world from the Fade.  Those who would freely support him in this should gather outside the grounds of Var Bellanaris at the next full moon.  You will be shown the way forward from there."  
 

  
 "What are we going to do?"  Feyndir put his head in his hands, his temples throbbing.  "From the sound of things, half the clan wants to run off and join the Dread Wolf, and the other half wants to kill them for even considering it."

 Tirsas poked at the small fire in the center of his tent, sending sparks up and out the circular hole in the roof.  He tossed a few dried elfroot leaves into the flames and inhaled deeply.  "What can we do?  I am a Keeper, not a jailer.  I cannot forbid grown men and women from following their conscience."

 "Even if it leads them straight into the jaws of the Dread Wolf?"  Feyndir struggled to keep his voice low; Tirsas had enacted a curfew upon the ancient elves' departure, but the tent's thin sides did little to hold in sounds.  "We have no idea what he intends to do with those who rally to his side.  He may lead them to their deaths."

 Tirsas sighed.  "Or, they may be marching to victory.  They may swell the ranks of an army that will finally crush the shemlen forever, with one of our own Creators at its head."  Too late, he realized his own words.  "Feyndir, you know I don't mean --"

 "Don't you?  But isn't that the unspoken dream of every Dalish, to somehow rid Thedas of humans completely?"  He stood up and gave a perfunctory bow.  "Forgive me, hahren.  It is late, and I need to check on my wife and son.  Can we continue this discussion in the morning?"

 "Very well."  The Keeper frowned and looked up, meeting Feyndir's eyes.  He could see the anger that blazed there, and the hurt.  "Sleep well, and return to me at first light."

 "I doubt that I shall sleep at all, in truth."

 "No.  Nor shall I."

 Tirsas did sleep, though.  He stayed awake late into the night trying to see a path forward for the People, but at last his eyelids grew heavy and he lay down on his furs and entered the Fade.  It came as no great surprise to him when he encountered an enormous wolf there, a great shaggy creature who appeared menacing one moment and sorrowful the next, wise and cunning in turn. 

  _Send them to me. Vir enasalin _.__

__

__

____

____

 Tirsas made no response.


	8. Chapter 8

 "Someone is following us."  Sulevin spoke lightly, his pace unaltered.  They were passing through a small forest, following the twisting path of a shallow river.  "Just over your left shoulder, up in the trees."

 His companion smiled faintly.  "Shall I shake the rascal down?"

 "Please."

 The elf's brilliant green eyes flashed in the darkness as he turned, and a sudden gust of wind tore through the woods.  Leaves and twigs broke free and swirled about the elves' bare feet. "Hmph."  He cocked his head and the wind strengthened.  Larger branches began to snap off, the trees groaning as they bent under the force of the magical gale.  At last, a dark shape was thrown from the boughs of a white birch, landing with a curse in a cluster of bushes.

 "Who are you?"  Sulevin demanded of the dishevelled hunter who stumbled out of the undergrowth.

 "My name is Atharil."  He picked a leaf from his pale hair and flicked it away.  "I've never seen that particular spell before.  It's quite effective."

 "It was common enough, once."  The elf who had cast it shrugged.  "I am Ghilas.  You are from the clan we just visited."

 It was not a question, but Atharil nodded, anyway.  "I am."

 "Your Keeper asked you to track us?"  Sulevin folded his arms across his chest.

 "No, I...he doesn't know I'm here."  The Dalish looked suddenly uncomfortable, nervous even.  "I needed to ask you something."

 Ghilas sighed.  "You already know enough to make your decision.  We are not free to divulge more."

 Atharil frowned.  "Is it true that your...'leader' can remove vallaslin?"

 The two ancient elves exchanged a look.

 "He can, yes," Sulevin answered hesitantly.  "But for such as you, it is not necessary.  Your markings are harmless, da'len.  They are decorative."

 The Dalish had begun shaking his head even before Sulevin finished speaking. 

 "Mine are not," he insisted now, reaching up to touch the lines of Andruil's bow on his cheek.  "I can feel her sometimes, drawing power through me, using me to reach out from...from somewhere."  His eyes darted from one of them to the other, and Sulevin thought he glimpsed a veiled terror there.  "Andruil wants me to suffer for her."

 Ghilas had gone pale.  "That's not possible," he said, his voice barely a whisper.  "She is locked away; we are all safe so long as -"

 Sulevin laid a hand on his friend's arm.  "Peace, Ghilas.  Of course the child is mistaken.  He suffers delusions, perhaps, or -"

 "I am not mad!"  Atharil's voice rang out in the dark wood.  He ran a shaking hand through his hair, and now Sulevin noticed that one side of the man's face was covered in taut, pink scar tissue.  The Dalish had been badly burned at some point.  Sulevin felt a pang of sympathy to think that someone whose life would be so short should also find it filled with pain.

 "The Huntress cannot harm you."  He spoke calmly, trying to reassure the distressed elf even as he found himself fighting back his own dark memories of Andruil's cruelty.  She did indeed love to watch her followers suffer, especially towards the end....

 "Fenedhis!  I thought you two, at least, would understand.  I thought you could help me!"  He threw his hands up and turned away, then spun back around.  "What good is your damned Fen'Harel, anyway?"

 Sulevin felt heat creeping up his neck beneath the high collar of his tunic.  "How dare you speak that way --" he began, then stopped suddenly as he noticed the color draining from the young elf's face.  Atharil spasmed, his back arching and his chin jutting forward before his eyes rolled back.

 "She sees you."  His tone was flat.

 The elder elves had barely time enough to Fade-step out of the way before the Dalish hunter leapt at them, his dagger slashing through the air with the frenzy of a cornered animal.  Atharil cast the weapon aside without a pause, reaching instead for the bow on his back.  Only the whites of his eyes showed, but he behaved as though his vision were intact, nocking an arrow with such speed that his movements blurred.

 "Don't hurt him!"  Sulevin rushed to cast barriers over himself and Ghilas.  "He is not in control of himself!"

 "How can this be?"  Ghilas waved a hand, hastily summoning magic from the Fade as if pulling invisible threads. 

 Atharil fired a series of arrows, snarling as they bounced harmlessly off the ancient elves' defences.

 "He is no mage, thankfully," Sulevin said, regaining a bit of his composure as he realized the hunter was unable to harm them.  "That must frustrate her immensely."  He studied the Dalish who now stood impotently before them, his chest rising and falling at an unnaturally fast pace.  "Look -- she's tiring already.  Her hold on him is tenuous."

 With a grimace of distaste, Sulevin walked over to the younger elf and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragging him toward the water's edge.  Atharil resisted bitterly at first, scraping his feet along the ground and clawing at the man's garments, but after a few moments his struggling became weaker.  By the time they had waded out into the shallow river, the cold water splashing about their knees, he had become grudgingly compliant.  Sulevin threw him down easily, pushing his blond head beneath the surface of the water.  He held him there for several seconds before releasing him. 

 The Dalish gasped as he sat upright in the cold water, staring wide-eyed at the older elf.  "What are you doing?" he panted.  "What happened?"

 Sulevin rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.  "I believe you now," he said.  "I still don't understand it, but I believe you."

 


	9. Chapter 9

 They built a small fire using dead branches dislodged by Ghilas' wind spell, and Atharil stripped off his wet clothing.  He laid it out to dry beside the flames as Fen'Harel's agents sat debating the possible causes of his link with Andruil.  They spoke in low tones, angling their heads together so that he could catch only snippets of their conversation. 

 "It is certainly _not _his vallaslin," Sulevin reaffirmed at last, turning to squint at the lines tattooed on the hunter's face.  "Those are perfectly ordinary Dalish markings."__

____

____

 Ghilas leaned in, as well.  "Agreed.  What about his scars?"  He lifted his gaze and addressed Atharil directly.  "Those burns, and the claw marks on your shoulder -- how did you acquire them?"

____

____

 Atharil felt his face grow hot at the elves' scrutiny.  "I was burned by a mage's fireball," he explained as succinctly as possible.  "The scratches are from...from a fear demon."  He had to stop himself from saying Freylen's name.

____

____

 Ghilas frowned.  "Neither of which explains anything."  He continued staring at the naked hunter for several more seconds before finally noticing his discomfort.  He unfastened his cloak and handed it over.  "Here, put this on."

____

____

 Atharil slipped the garment about his thin shoulders gratefully, drawing his legs up under it.  It felt warmer than it looked, as warm as wool but lighter than silk.  He couldn't even imagine what the fabric might be.  "Ma serannas."

____

____

 The ancient elf brightened and unleashed a torrent of elvhen speech the hunter couldn't begin to follow.

____

____

 "Ghilas."  Sulevin looked at him sharply.  "You know they don't really have our tongue -- not like that."

____

____

 Atharil felt suddenly ashamed.  "Ir abelas, hahren," he said, looking at the ground.  "Our people have lost much...."

____

____

 Sulevin waved a hand impatiently.  "There is nothing for which you need apologize."  He cleared his throat and returned to the subject at hand.  "How did you feel about Andruil, Atharil?  Before all this began, were you quite devoted to her?"

____

____

 "My clan thought I was a gift from the Huntress."  It sounded ridiculous now, after what he'd learned of the Evanuris, but he forced himself to continue.  "I prayed to her faithfully, believing she guided my life and favored me above others."  He paused.  "It was foolish and prideful of me; I know that now."

____

____

 Ghilas and Sulevin regarded him in silence, their large eyes full of pity, and Atharil felt even worse.

____

____

 "Will can certainly be a powerful force, even for non-mages," Sulevin said at last.  He picked up a small stick and poked at the fire.  "It is possible that the strength of your dedication to Andruil offered her a foothold in this world." 

____

____

 Ghilas raised one eyebrow.  "If that were all that is required, then many of the Dalish would find themselves similarly afflicted."  He shook his head.  "No, there is more to this.  Something we are missing."  He thought for a moment, and then his emerald eyes widened.  He reached over and took Atharil's chin in one hand, turning the hunter's face this way and that, examining his features.

____

____

 "What are you doing?"  Atharil wrenched his head away, rubbing at his jaw.

____

____

 "Give me your arm."  Ghilas drew a small knife from his belt and held out a hand.  Atharil stared at him, wary, and the ancient elf gave an exasperated sigh.  "Come, now.  I'm hardly going to stab you to death while you're wearing my cloak, am I?"

____

____

 Slowly, Atharil withdrew one arm from the comfort of the cloak and extended it.  Ghilas took him by the wrist and drew his blade lightly across the offered forearm.  The knife's edge was razor-sharp; a thin line of blood welled up at once, though Atharil barely felt the cut.  The ancient elf first bent and sniffed at it, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in concentration.  Then he touched the tip of his tongue lightly to the wound.

____

____

 "Hey!"  Atharil yanked his arm away, his upper lip curling in disgust.

____

____

 Ghilas smiled at him patiently, his eyes overbright.  "My apologies," he said softly, "but I know now why Andruil is able to use you as a conduit.  The force of your will did indeed open a door for her, but it is the unexpected strength of the magic in your blood that allows her to step through."

____

____

 


	10. Chapter 10

 "My blood?" the hunter repeated.  "I know all elves are said to have magic in our veins, but I am not even a mage."

 Ghilas shook his head.  "That doesn't matter.  The blood of most Dalish is diluted, weakened by countless generations living and dying beneath the Veil.  But yours, Atharil, is much closer to the wellspring of our people.  It connects you to the Fade in ways they cannot fathom, even if you have never learned to access it properly."  Ghilas glanced at Sulevin as he spoke.  "What do you know of your father?"

 "Nothing."  He did not feel like explaining the details of his conception to these elves, who would surely find the entire ritual foolish.  He did not want them to look at him again with their eyes full of sympathy for the ignorant quickling.  "My mother was with him only once, and they did not see each other again.  He was not from my clan."

 Ghilas nodded.  "He was a good man," he said, his voice thick with emotion.  "Always brave, and often funny, and too clever for his own good.  He called himself Felassan."

 Sulevin inhaled sharply.  "Are you certain?"

 "Check for yourself," Ghilas offered, gesturing toward Atharil.

 Atharil pulled his limb back beneath the cloak.  "No.  No one else is licking my blood."

 Sulevin inclined his head.  "That's all right; I trust Ghilas' word.  He and your father were friends, long ago."  He laid a hand on his companion's back, and Atharil saw that Ghilas was trying very hard not to weep.

 "My father is dead, then?"  A sudden knot formed in the pit of his stomach.  "How did he die?"

 Sulevin hesitated.  "In the service of the Dread Wolf, as he lived."

 Atharil squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to make sense of the words.  "You're saying he was an agent of Fen'Harel?  That cannot be -- my mother told me my father was Dalish.  He belonged to a clan that briefly crossed paths with our own."

 Ghilas smiled apologetically.  "I'm sure that's what she believed."

 "Then he lied to her."  Atharil made no attempt to disguise the disdain in his voice.

 Sulevin cleared his throat.  "Felassan was tasked with acquiring contacts within the Orlesian court, and to that end he spent many years living in the forests outside Val Royeaux.  I have no doubt the assignment was a lonely one.  Try not to judge him too harshly."

 Ghilas ran the back of his hand across his eyes and sniffed loudly.  "In any case, it is Felassan's elvhen blood that helped Andruil gain influence over you.  That, combined with your own misguided worship, through which you unwittingly offered yourself."

 Atharil scowled.  "So, how do I get rid of her?  Do you know a spell?"

 Sulevin snorted.  "She cannot be cast out so easily, I'm afraid."  He cocked his head to one side.  "Removing your vallaslin would have no effect, but the Dread Wolf may still know ways to help you.  Or he might discover them, if you're inclined to seek him out."

 "I am not."  Atharil was suddenly uneasy.  "His plan is madness."

 To his surprise, neither of the men attempted to argue this point with him.  Ghilas only shrugged and said, "It is your choice, though I can think of none but Fen'Harel who may be able to free you from Andruil's grasp."

 Sulevin nodded.  "Indeed.  And it would please the old wolf to meet you, I think.  Felassan was one of his most trusted agents, and to find that some part of him lives on...well.  It would be of no small comfort to him."

 Atharil struggled to wrap his head around this idea.  He could barely imagine that the Dread Wolf was a real flesh-and-blood elf, let alone a person who ate and shat and had feelings.  The thought of a Creator being happy to make his acquaintance filled him with a kind of dull terror.

 Ghilas seemed to read his thoughts.  "I sometimes find him intimidating, too," he admitted, "but he has great respect for those who seek knowledge.  You need not fear to speak with him, though it's unlikely he'll permit you to return home afterward."

 Atharil started.  "Then I cannot ask his assistance.  I have no wish to be swept up in his cause."

 Sulevin bowed his head.  "Atharil, you must have some idea of the risk Fen'Harel is taking in reaching out to the elves of this age.  If you allow us to bring you into his presence, you will have seen too much to be allowed to depart it."

 He hugged his knees to his chest beneath the cloak, a chill settling into his bones.  "I understand."

 Ghilas patted his shoulder.  "Fortunately, there is no need for you to make a decision tonight.  For now, return to your people.  You already know where and when to find us again."

 "And if Andruil overpowers me again in the meantime?"

 Sulevin shook his head.  "That seems unlikely.  In Ghilas and I, Andruil saw a rare opportunity to lash out against Fen'Harel.  The Dalish do not present nearly such a tempting target."  He paused, and Atharil glimpsed in his expression the caution with which he was selecting his words.  "You should continue to be wary of her more subtle manipulations, of course, but I doubt she'll try to possess you again.  Those few moments cost her more than you realize, da'len."

 "Still...."  Ghilas exchanged a look with his companion before continuing.  "It might be safest to treat the Huntress as you would a demon.  Demons react to, and draw power from, strong emotion.  Remain calm, and you decrease the chance that Andruil will be able to exert control over you."

 Atharil ran a hand through his still-damp hair.  "That's easier said than done.  My entire clan is at each others' throats over how to deal with the Dread Wolf's return."

 Sulevin nodded.  "Your clan, and many others.  If I can offer you any consolation, it is that elves being at each others' throats is not a new development.  We will endure."

 Atharil met his gaze, recognizing for the first time something Dalish in the ancients elf's attitude.  Unexpectedly moved by the feeling of connection that followed, he looked away to keep Sulevin from seeing the tears that sprang to his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

 Feyndir turned the newly-forged helmet over in his hands, tracing his thumb along the noseguard.  "It looks almost identical to the ones we found in the Brecilian Forest last year."

 Tirsas grunted.  "It lacks the same level of detail, and this one is only made of iron, but it's not a bad approximation.  Our blacksmiths have been at the forge day and night trying to ensure we'll have enough of them to outfit everyone who wishes to join Fen'Harel." 

 Feyndir sighed and set the helmet aside.  "Matching elvhen armor, our tailors all stitching flags and banners...it is a waste of the clan's resources."

 "Our brothers and sisters are preparing to answer the call of a Creator, da'len.  Would you have them represent the People clad in cast-offs, and without heraldry?" 

 "Pageantry draws attention.  If they encounter humans --"

 The Keeper waved a hand.  "The shemlen will think twice about attacking Dalish now that the Dread Wolf is afoot."

 Feyndir heard a trace of smugness in Tirsas' words, and frowned.  "I would not rely upon that.  We don't yet know how the humans are responding to the Inquisitor's tale."  He pointed to a scrap of parchment beside the Keeper's knee.  "How many will be leaving us?"

 "Almost a third of the clan has expressed interest, so far."  Tirsas handed over the document with a grimace.  "Including most of our hunters."

 Feyndir scanned the list of names.  "Fenedhis," he breathed.  "How will the clan survive this?"

 Shouting from outside the Keeper's tent interrupted their conversation.  Feyndir rose wearily to his feet and went to find its source, squinting as he ducked out into the afternoon sunlight.  He'd lost track of the number of arguments and fistfights he'd broken up in the past few days, but this time he arrived to find Arinna already in control of the situation.  There was nothing left for him to do but stand and watch as the young Second reprimanded the offenders and sent them back to their duties with an authority that belied her tender years.

 "Thank you for that," he said when they were alone.

 She shrugged.  "It's my place to help.  I think sometimes you and Keeper Tirsas forget I'm even here."

 Feyndir laughed.  "You are still a child.  The Keeper and I would prefer you to focus on your studies."  He crossed his arms, considering.  "But perhaps you are capable of more than we expect.  I will speak with him about increasing your responsibilities."

 Arinna nodded, clearly pleased.  "Ma serannas, hahren.  Atharil needs to speak with you, by the way.  He is with Ryneth, in your aravel." 

 "Oh."  Feyndir tried not to sound over-interested in that bit of news.

 "Is that all right?"  She looked suddenly worried, and Feyndir knew at once that she'd heard the rumors that were circulating.  The Dalish could never resist a bit of gossip, even when facing the return of a god.

 "It's fine.  Really."  He smiled, but the girl looked doubtful.  "I'll just...go and find out what he wants."  He gestured in the direction of his home as if Arinna didn't already know where it was, hurrying off before she could respond further.

 

 Before he pushed open the aravel's rounded door, he took a deep breath. 

 "Feyndir!"  Ryneth looked up with a smile.  She and Atharil had been playing with Hugo and Frey on the bed, but the hunter rose awkwardly to his feet at Feyndir's entrance.

 "Lethallin," he said, his eyes averted.

 "Relax, Atharil."  But his friend's discomfort reassured him, somehow.  Atharil was taking no liberties, assuming nothing.  "Arinna said you were looking for me?"

 He eased himself back down onto the edge of the bed.  "I need to ask a favor of you -- you and Ryneth both."

 Feyndir felt the corner of his mouth lifting.  "You remain welcome here, lethallin.  Ryneth and I have already discussed it."

 "Oh, I...thank you."  Atharil turned pink to the tips of his long ears.  "Though that isn't what I meant."

 "Then what is it?"

 Frey had climbed into Atharil's lap as they spoke, and now the hunter pressed a kiss to her forehead.  "I want you to look after Frey for me for...for a while."

 Feyndir frowned.  "Of course, but why?"

 "I just...I think it would be safer for her.  You're a mage; you can protect her in ways that I cannot."

 "Protect her from what?"  His frown deepened.  "Has someone threatened your daughter, Atharil?"

 The hunter looked uncomfortable.  "No, not exactly.  But with so much unrest among the People...."

 Ryneth laid a hand on his shoulder.  "It's fine, Atharil.  If you'd prefer Frey stay with us until things settle down, we'll be happy to have her.  Won't we, Feyndir?"

 Feyndir shrugged.  He had the feeling Atharil wasn't being completely honest with them, but could see no reason to object.  "Very well."  He cast a sidelong glance at his wife before addressing Atharil again.  "There is another matter we should discuss while you're here.  Come with me."

 

 Feyndir waited until they were outside the aravel, the door shut firmly behind them, before he spoke.

 "Tomorrow is the day, lethallin .  Tirsas thinks it best not to drag this out, and I'm inclined to agree.  The sooner it is behind us, the better."

 He waited for Atharil's reaction, but for several seconds there was none.  The hunter looked back at him blankly, and Feyndir realized with a start that he'd actually forgotten about the punishment awaiting him.  Then, slowly, understanding dawned in Atharil's pale eyes.  He took a step back.

 "Now is not a good time, believe me."

 Feyndir felt a flicker of irritation.  "The longer we wait --"

 Atharil shook his head.  "No, I've changed my mind.  I'll go into exile, I'll shovel halla shit...whatever you decide, I'll abide by it.  But I can no longer go through with what we discussed." 

 "Creators, Atharil," Feyndir breathed, shocked at the hunter's sudden change of heart.  "Where has your courage fled?"

 He scowled.  "I'm not afraid, Feyndir.  You don't understand."

 "Oh, but I think I do."  He leaned in, wagging a finger beneath the hunter's nose.  "I understand that the clan needs this.  I understand that you agreed to it, and I understand the absolute chaos that will erupt if I attempt to alter your sentence now."  Feyndir was close to shouting; with effort, he lowered his voice to a growl.  "You will show up tomorrow, and you will accept this sentence you've chosen even if I have to drag you from your tent myself."

 "Lethallin --"

 Feyndir raised his hands before him.  "Don't.  The People are hanging by a thread, Atharil, and you are part of the reason."

 "I am?"  Atharil looked so betrayed that Feyndir felt briefly ashamed.  "I saved your family."

 "You saved the woman you love."  He spat the words, embarrassed and confused by his anger.

 "Yes."  Atharil was quiet a moment.  "Did you want me to deny it?"

 Feyndir stood clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides.  "No," he admitted finally.  "No, I apologize.  My feelings are more complicated than I realized."

 "If you'd prefer things return to the way they were, I understand."

 "No."  Feyndir shook his head.  "But you must follow through tomorrow, Atharil.  For the sake of peace -- for Ryneth -- you must not be seen to protest."  He laid a hand on the hunter's shoulder.  "Endure the whip without complaint, and I swear I will come to your tent afterwards.  I'll close your wounds with magic, and wrap you in blood-stained bandages so that no one will realize."

 The hunter sighed, his brow furrowed with worry.  "As you say, hahren.  But promise me this -- when my hands are bound tomorrow, be certain the knots are tight, and the rope is strong.  Tighter and stronger than seems necessary."  He hesitated.  "Also, I will need to be gagged and blindfolded."

 Feyndir drew a sharp breath.  "Atharil, I don't think --"

 He shook his head.  "If you want my cooperation, those are my terms.  Will you meet them?"

 Feyndir nodded, finding his throat suddenly tight.  He coughed.  "If that is what you require, da'len, then so be it.  Now come back inside."  He grinned sheepishly, mentally shrugging off his official mantle.  "Ryneth will want to fuss over you and shed tears of sympathy into your flaxen tresses."

 Atharil chuckled.  "Some other night.  For now, I think I'd best return to my own tent and contemplate my crimes.  I will see you in the morning."

 Feyndir grimaced.  "Until the morning, then, lethallin."


	12. Chapter 12

 As was becoming usual, Tirsas awoke with a headache and a memory of eyes.  So many eyes, and all of them red as burning embers; they watched him, weighed him, tested him.  Sometimes, he recalled having been questioned by the shadowy creature to whom they belonged, but he could never quite remember what he'd been asked or how he'd responded.  He only knew that he woke from such dreams more exhausted than when he'd lain down, his temples pounding and his nerves frayed.

 Arinna brought him coffee.  He drank it gratefully, for once unconcerned that there wasn't enough of the luxury to go around.  He needed it more than most, and he needed it today especially.  When he was finished, he handed her back the cup and dismissed her with a gesture.

 "Have you chosen someone for this unhappy task?" he asked his First, shrugging formal robes over his simple tunic.

 Feyndir nodded.  "I asked among the hunters and scouts for volunteers, rejecting those who seemed over-eager.  The rest drew straws."

 Tirsas grunted as he tightened his belt.  "That seems a reasonable approach." 

 "This whole business makes me sick."

 Tirsas regarded him with sympathy.  "I know.  I don't like it, either, but it is far better than the alternative.  You are probably too young to remember the last time one of our own was sentenced to death...?"

 Feyndir shuddered.  "I wish that were true, but no.  Keeper Maeven insisted everyone should bear witness -- even the children."

 Tirsas smiled ruefully.  "She wanted the execution burned into our collective memory, so that we might never need to hold another one.  She was a good Keeper."

 "I suppose."  Feyndir folded his arms.  "Though I would never allow you to hang Atharil, Tirsas."

 The Keeper arched a brow.  "A leader should avoid showing favoritism, da'len."  He waved a tired hand.  "It's a moot point, anyway.  Atharil deserves no censure at all; we both know that.  Still, I am thankful to him for agreeing to this farcical punishment.  Perhaps the illusion that justice is being carried out will soothe some of the clan's tension."

 "Or maybe witnessing more violence will rile them up even further."

 Tirsas groaned, and his shoulders slumped forward momentarily before he forced them back again.  "Well, we'll find out soon, won't we?"  He picked up his staff, set it back down, picked it up again.  "Just in case there's any trouble."

 Feyndir gripped his own staff more tightly.  "I think that's wise, hahren."

 

 A crowd had already gathered.  The elves stood clustered together, speaking in hushed tones, their arms crossed and their eyes narrowed.  They turned as Tirsas and Feyndir approached.  Many of them wore grim expressions, but more than a few smirked openly, and Feyndir knew it was for them that Atharil must suffer.  Like Cam, the smiling elves had never truly accepted Ryneth into the clan, and now they would use his death as an opportunity to take out their frustrations on those who'd welcomed her. 

 True to his word, Atharil was already awaiting them at the appointed spot just outside the encampment.  He inclined his head as they drew near, the morning sunlight reflecting off his pale hair.

 "Andaran atish'an, Keeper."  The slight smile on his lips did little to disguise the apprehension in his eyes.

 Tirsas ignored his greeting.  He motioned to the unlucky scout who stood beside the hunter, his jaw set but his face pale.  "Prepare him."

 Feyndir looked away as Atharil pulled his shirt over his head and stretched his thin arms about the trunk of a towering pine.  Its lower branches had recently been removed for the purpose, clear sap still oozing from fresh cuts.  The scout produced a length of rope and tied Atharil's wrists together quickly and expertly, but the hunter tugged at the bindings and was unsatisfied.

 "Tighter.  There's room yet."

 The scout looked toward Tirsas, uncertain, but it was Feyndir who nodded.  "Tighten the knots."

 "As you say, hahren." 

 "And then --"  Feyndir could taste bile rising in his throat, and cleared it.  "Then blindfold and gag him."

 The scout's eyes widened, but he nodded.  Atharil glanced at Feyndir just before a thin strip of cloth was laid across his eyes, gratitude in his expression.

 The scout was apologetic.  "I haven't got anything for a gag.  I wasn't expecting...."

 "Oh, for pity's sake!"  Feyndir tore his own kerchief from about his neck, his hands shaking, and crossed over to his friend.  "Open your mouth, Atharil."

 "Thank you, Feyndir."  His voice was a whisper.

 "Shut up.  This was a terrible idea."  He stuffed the fabric in the hunter's mouth before he could respond, tying the ends firmly behind his head.  "I hope that tastes of sweat."

  
 Ryneth was elsewhere.  Feyndir had suggested she take the children to gather elfroot amid the ruins to the south -- any excuse to get them all away from the encampment.  He knew his wife's temperament would never allow her to stand by in silence while she perceived an injustice was being done, yet if she interfered now it would only make things worse.  Ryneth must have realized it, too, for she went without argument, asking only that he not allow Atharil's punishment to continue a moment longer than was necessary.

 "That isn't within my power, rabbit," he'd told her.  "Our Keeper must decide when it is enough."

 She'd scowled.  "Tirsas will let Atharil be flayed alive if he thinks it's better for the clan."

 He kissed her forehead.  "I'm sure he will not.  Besides, you know I'm going to tend to Atharil immediately afterwards."

 "That will not lessen his pain when the lash falls!"  She wiped at her eyes angrily.  "I hate all of you for planning this."

 "Ir abelas, my love."  He opened his mouth to say more, but shut it again.  What would it benefit her to know that Atharil did this for her sake, as well?  The hunter would allow their clan's anger to be slaked on his own body, so that it might not be turned towards her and Hugo.

 Feyndir took her hands in his.  "No lasting harm will come to him, you have my word."

 

 Atharil waited, his heart hammering against his ribs.  Feyndir's kerchief did indeed taste salty with dried perspiration, and he tried to keep his tongue off it.  He pressed his forehead to the tree's rough bark.  Beneath his blindfold, he could see a narrow strip of light, and a small purple flower blooming on the ground near his feet.  The gathered Dalish had fallen completely silent.

 Then the first stroke fell, and a sudden light flashed behind Atharil's eyes.  His back arched of its own accord, his breath torn from his lungs by a pain far sharper than he'd anticipated.  He had just time enough to gasp before the whip landed again.

  _Mother of Hares.... _Instinctively, his mind reached out for her, his patron, his protectress.  But she was not that any longer.  She had turned on him, taken Freylen from him, forced him to hunt his beloved for her own pleasure.  He must not seek Andruil out.  He must guard his thoughts--__

____

____

 The lash bit into him again, striking lower on his back this time, closer to the bone.  Atharil squeezed his eyes shut and bit down hard on the gag, no longer mindful of the sweat soaked into the material.  In whom could he find refuge?  The Dread Wolf claimed the Creators were not even gods.  They were only mages, elves like himself.  He was abandoned.

____

____

  _I have not abandoned you, my hunter. Bend without breaking. _The image of an elven woman, beautiful and terrifying, her eyes like burning coals and her arms thrown wide, flickered at the edges of his consciousness.__

________ _ _ _ _

_____ _

 Vir Bor'assan, the way of the bow.  Though he'd never heard her voice before, Atharil knew it was the Huntress who whispered to him now.  While he was distracted by his own suffering, Andruil was slipping into his waking mind.

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil struggled against shock, both mental and physical.  He tried to gather his concentration, tried to summon the will to shut the goddess out again, but the whip scourged all coherent thoughts from his mind.  Only agony remained -- a fire was upon his back, and it was consuming him.  The world shrank until it was reduced to his torment.  His torment, and the sound of someone far away whimpering.  He wished in vain that they would shut up, not realizing it was his own voice he heard.

_____ _

_____ _

 How had Elodie borne this?  Atharil had seen the city elf's scars, even treated her wounds after she'd been beaten because of him.  He knew other elves throughout Orlais and Tevinter suffered the same at the hands of the humans they served -- even in Ferelden, a flat-ear who displeased his employer might know the sting of his belt.  Until now, Atharil hadn't fully comprehended the level of suffering they endured.

_____ _

_____ _

  _Petition me for release. Who are they to lay stripes upon my servant, after all?  You are MY prey. ___

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil lost count of the lashes he'd received.  His legs trembled beneath him and his bowels threatened to loosen, but still he struggled to hold the Creator at bay.  He did not wish to be offered an escape from the punishment he'd chosen.  He needed to endure it...the clan needed to see him endure it....

_____ _

_____ _

  _Foolishness.  They are shadows. Invite me in, sweet Atharil, for mine is the mercy of the hound that tears the halla's throat, the arrow that pierces its heart.  It is an end to suffering. ___

_____ _

_____ _

 Any thought of trying to preserve his dignity departed Atharil at her words, and he wept aloud into the gag, his blindfold soaking up the tears he shed.  He collapsed against the tree as Andruil sent images of Freylen flooding into his mind, alternating between glimpses of the girl's smiling face and flashes of her broken body, one of his arrows still embedded in her chest.

_____ _

_____ _

  _Let me show you the mercy you showed her. ___

_____ _

_____ _

 It was tempting.  He could almost feel Andruil taking his hands, loosening his bonds, setting him free.  No more pain, no more lonliness.  No more regret.

_____ _

_____ _

 But it wasn't the Huntress, after all.  Dimly, Atharil heard Tirsas telling the People to return to their duties, that Atharil was cleansed of his crime and it was not to be spoken of again.  Somehow, it was all over.  He felt the gag removed from his mouth and the blindfold lifted from his eyes.  He squinted into the sunlight, dazed.

_____ _

_____ _

 "I'll take you home, lethallin.  Lean on me."  Feyndir's voice came from far away, and when he slung Atharil's arm over his shoulder blackness crowded the edges of the hunter's vision.  Atharil welcomed it, too exhausted to fight any further, and the world spun into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's been a while in the making. Ir abelas.
> 
> If I named chapters, I would called this one "The Temptation of Atharil". Which really just shows that I shouldn't name chapters.


	13. Chapter 13

 Atharil awoke with the familiar scent of elfroot in his nose.  Elfroot and...something else.  He was lying bare-chested on his stomach on his own bed of wolves' pelts, the soft fur tickling his nose. Ryneth was seated beside him, a bowl of poultice at her knee.

 "Is it that bad?"  He managed a small smile.  "It must be, if you were able to convince Tirsas to part with some of his precious prophet's laurel."

 "This came from Arinna."  She dipped two fingers into the mixture.  "She keeps her own stash, apparently."

 "Smart girl.  I'll have to thank her --"  Ryneth touched the medicine to his back, and it was as if she'd applied it with a hot iron.  "Holy fucking...arrrrgh!"  He buried his face in the bedding.

 "Sorry."  But she didn't stop, and Atharil bit his lip to keep from protesting further.

 "I thought Feyndir would be here," he said finally through gritted teeth. 

 "He will, soon."  She took her hand away, and Atharil glimpsed blood on her fingertips.  "He and Tirsas are dealing with another scuffle at the moment."

 Atharil groaned.  "So the People still aren't satisfied.  This was for nothing."

 "I wouldn't say that.  Cam's family seem placated, at least."  She sighed.  "No, this fight began as a disagreement about the nature of Mythal.  Someone suggested she and Andraste might actually be the same person, and that Fen'Harel could be the Maker."

 Atharil stared at her in disbelief.  "Has everyone lost their minds?"

 "Only some of them."  She put her hand back in the bowl.  "Now hold still.  Feyndir says this will help prevent scarring."

 "What are a few more scars to me at this point?"  But he closed his eyes and tried to lie motionless, willing himself to imagine Ryneth's touch as it had felt a few nights ago.  Soft yet insistent, tracing a line down his spine, urging him closer....  The only result was an uncomfortable stiffness he dared not attempt to relieve by shifting his position, both out of embarrassment and fear of the agony such a movement would bring.

 "Besides," she continued, oblivious to his discomfort, "It's no more strange than your beliefs about Andruil."

 He groaned.  "If I tell you something, will you keep it between us?"

 She considered.  "That depends what it is."

 "I followed Fen'Harel's agents when they left our camp.  I spoke with them."

 Ryneth was quiet for a moment.  "And what did they tell you?" she asked finally, her tone wary.

 "That I'm not imagining things."  He twisted his head to meet her gaze, and saw the concern in her eyes.  "My father was one of them, Ryneth.  He was an ancient, and a servant of the Dread Wolf."

 The tent's flap lifted then, letting in a cool gust of wind that set Atharil's back aflame once more.

 "Ir abelas, I came as soon as I could."  Feyndir looked worn.  His shoulders slumped beneath his embroidered First's robes.  "How is our patient, vhenan?"

 Ryneth, still recovering from Atharil's unexpected revelation, took a moment to respond.  "He's, uh...he's fine.  As well as can be expected, anyway."  She smiled weakly.

 Feyndir took a knee beside Atharil, studying his wounds.  "Some of these are quite deep, I'm afraid."  He grimaced.  "I'll do my best, but you may be left with a few souvenirs."

 Atharil gave a dry laugh.  "You've seen the side of my face, haven't you?  My looks were destroyed long ago."

 "Your burns never bothered Freylen."  Feyndir spoke softly, clasping his hands together before him.  "Nor does Ryneth seem overly concerned by them, for that matter, so stop grousing."

 "I'm not grousing, I am only pointing out...."  His voice trailed away as the mage's palms flared from within with a soft, orangish light.  "Creators, you're so much faster at that than you used to be."

 Feyndir smiled.  "It comes more easily these days."  He opened his hands, placing them carefully over the angriest of the red stripes that crisscrossed Atharil's back.  "How does that feel?"

 Atharil sighed with relief as the gentle warmth flooded into him.  "Better than I remember."  He glanced up at Ryneth.  "You should get him to do this recreationally."

 "Who says I don't?"  She smiled coyly and turned away,  her cheeks crimson at the admission.

 Feyndir shook his head and shifted his hands to a new position.  "I still require at least a modicum of concentration to maintain this spell," he reminded them both.  "If you could refrain from making of this situation something...something it is not, that would be helpful."

 Ryneth stifled a giggle and cleared her throat.  "Have you and Tirsas spoken any more about your idea?"

 Feyndir nodded, looking relieved at the change in topic.  "We have.  I was going wait until later to mention it, but...well.  The Keeper thinks we should not delay.  We're leaving in the morning."

 Atharil strained to look back over his shoulder.  "What is this idea?  Where are you going?"

 Feyndir fixed him with a hard look.  "Ryneth and I are going to be making a short visit to her family.  That's all you need to know, for now.  It may come to nothing."

 Alarmed, Atharil tried to sit up, but Feyndir pushed him back down with a grunt.  "Please don't move."

 "But why now, with everything else that's happening?"  The hunter could feel his chest tightening.  "You are coming back, aren't you?"

 "Of course we are."  Ryneth took one of his hands in hers.  "And we won't be gone long.  I promise."

 "I could come with you."  He didn't care if he sounded plaintive.

 "No, Atharil."  Feyndir sighed heavily.  "No, you may not.  The clan expects to see you slowly recovering, remember?  Besides which, Sean is not all that fond of you.  Nor is Hendry.  And Elodie...well.  It's best you remain here, don't you think?"

 Ryneth squeezed his hand.  "It's just for a few days."

 "All right."  The fire in Atharil's back had almost completely subsided, but a new pain, dull where the other had been sharp, was settling in the pit of his stomach.  "But what about Frey?"

 Feyndir removed his hands from Atharil's back and shook them, the last traces of magic curling away like tendrils of smoke.  "Surely you can manage to look after your own daughter for a few days, lethallin."  He frowned.  "If you're really that concerned for her safety, I'm sure Tirsas or Arinna could set wards for you."

 His words stung, but Atharil could find no argument against them.  None that Feyndir was likely to believe, anyway.  "You're right.  I will ask their help in your absence."  He sat up at last, and Ryneth wrapped him in bandages to hide Feyndir's work.  "Ma serannas, both of you."

 Feyndir folded his arms.  "I only wish I could erase my memory as easily as I lifted those stripes.  The sight of you tied to that tree...."  He looked away, shaking his head.  "Never again."

 Atharil grinned.  "Well, I certainly hope not, anyway."

 "I mean it."  His tone was sharp.  "It was barbaric.  A practice unworthy of the People."

 The hunter ran a hand down his arm, still faintly sticky with sap.  "I admit, the experience was worse than I had expected," he said quietly.  "It makes me sorrier than ever for city elves like Elodie, and even more so for those enslaved in Tevinter.  If Fen'Harel has returned to free our brothers and sisters in bondage, then perhaps the Dalish really have misjudged him."

 Feyndir took a deep breath before responding.  "What Fen'Harel has planned could kill my wife and son.  If you sympathize with that, I am surprised to hear it."

 "I didn't say I sympathize."  He shot an apologetic glance at Ryneth.  "Only...only that the situation might be more complex than we believe."

 "It seems simple enough to me."

 Atharil hung his head.  "Ir abelas, lethallin.  I spoke carelessly."

 Ryneth stood up and gave his shoulder a squeeze.  "You should rest now, Atharil."  She took Feyndir by the elbow.  "We'll look in on you later, and bring you the evening meal."

 Feyndir said nothing, but avoided Atharil's gaze as he followed his wife out of the tent.

 

 A thin fog hovered just above the ground the next morning, a clear sign of the coming autumn.  Atharil shivered slightly as he made his way carefully around the edge of the encampment, hoping to avoid notice by the few of his clansmen who were already awake.  By the time he arrived at the aravel Ryneth and Feyndir shared, his foot wraps were wet through with dew.

 They were preparing to leave, two of the clan's swiftest horses already saddled for the journey.  Feyndir was tying a blanket to the back of one of them, the hood of his traveling cloak pulled up over his head.  Still, Atharil could see the flicker of annoyance that crossed the First's face as he approached.

 "You should not have come to see us off," he admonished.  "If others see you up and about so soon, they'll think your punishment was too lenient."

 "I walked slowly, just in case anyone was watching."  Atharil offered Ryneth a small smile.  "I could not let you leave without a farewell.  And --" he dug about in the small bag on his belt and produced a wrinkled scrap of paper "-- I wanted to give you this.  For Elodie."

 Ryneth accepted the letter with hesitation.  "Atharil, I'm not sure...."

 "It's just a few lines about Frey.  I wrote them myself."  He paused.  "I'll understand if she doesn't want to read them, but I thought she might be curious...."

 Her face relaxed.  "That's thoughtful, Atharil."  She tucked the note into one of the horses' saddlebags.  "I'll feel her out; if she seems open to hearing about the child, I'll pass along your letter."

 "Thank you."  He shuffled his feet, uncertain.

 Feyndir watched the two of them for a moment, then cleared his throat.  "I'll get Hugo, shall I?" he said pointedly, disappearing into the aravel.  He shut the door firmly behind him.

 Ryneth sighed.  "This is still awkward, isn't it?"

 Atharil didn't answer, but reached out to tuck a strand of tawny hair behind her ear, his fingers tracing her jawline.  "Promise me you will return."

 She laid her hand on his arm.  "Atharil...."

 He drew her in, kissing her as though he might never again, his heart racing as he felt her lips part beneath his own.  Yet when he slid an arm around her, she pulled away.

 "People might see."

 "Everyone knows already.  This is a Dalish camp."  It felt uncomfortably similar to conversations he'd once had with Freylen, and he felt a pang of unhappiness at the memory.

 "Well...." She checked over both his shoulders before returning to his embrace.  "If you're sure we're not scandalizing anyone."

 "Oh, they're scandalized, all right."  He chuckled against her neck, planting small kisses in a line along her collarbone.  "There's nothing about this arrangement that isn't scandalous."

 She tugged at his ear playfully.  "I never set out to be shocking by anyone's standards, thank you."

 "Yes, well --"  He took her hand and helped her onto her horse.  "-- I am continually shocked by you, in all the best ways."

 She smiled.  "Take care of yourself, Atharil."

 "I suppose I must, until you come back to me."  He kissed her hand before releasing it.  "Dareth shiral, my love."

 Feyndir emerged from the aravel then, carrying Hugo, the toddler wrapped in furs against the chill and blinking tiredly.  He passed the child into Ryneth's waiting arms and turned to his friend.

 "I can almost see you pining already, Atharil."

 The hunter shrugged, a thin line of pain shooting across his back at the gesture.  Feyndir's magic hadn't restored him completely, after all.  "Be careful on the roads.  Avoid towns, travel cross-country when you can --"

 Feyndir clapped his shoulder.  "I know how to keep clear of danger, lethallin.  I was a scout, remember?"

 Atharil frowned.  "Yes, but now you're a Dalish mage travelling with a human woman and a small child.  It will invite questions."

 "We've made this trip before."

 "Not since the Dread Wolf revealed himself."

 Feyndir nodded.  "I intend to take every precaution, I assure you."  He swung easily onto his horse's back.  "Sleep in the aravel while we're gone, if you like.  The nights are growing colder, and there's no reason it should sit empty."

 "Ma serannas."  He inclined his head.  "Hahren."

 Feyndir returned the gesture.  "Dareth shiral, Atharil."

 

 When they were gone, the hunter stared long after them, clutching his arms across his chest in a vain attempt to ward off a cold that came from within.  He felt vulnerable, exposed somehow by their absence.  Not that either of them could protect him from Andruil, anyway, but their presence had at least distracted him from worry. 

 "They'll return soon."  Arinna had come up on him without his noticing.

 "I know."  He didn't, really.  Why shouldn't Feyndir and Ryneth desert their fracturing clan and take refuge with her family, after all?  It would almost certainly be the safer option for them.

 Arinna took his arm.  "You shouldn't be up, Hahren Atharil.  Come with me; I'll help you back to your tent."

 Atharil allowed himself to be led, feeling silly but also comforted by the girl's attention.

 "Did the prophet's laurel help?"  She looked up at him innocently.

 "Ma serannas, yes.  Very much."  He nodded for emphasis.

 "But not as much as Feyndir's treatment, I bet."  Her eyes sparkled.

 Atharil blinked in surprise, and Arinna patted his arm maternally.  "I saw a lot of people whipped in Denerim," she confided.  "Mostly elves, but sometimes humans, too.  There was a scaffold in the market...anyway.  The beating you took, you shouldn't even be standing right now."  She shrugged.  "I figured it must be Feyndir's doing."

 "You were there, then."  He felt embarrassed at the thought, remembering how he had broken in the end.  "I assumed all the children were kept away."

 "I'm not a child, I'm the Second.  It's my place to bear witness."

 Something in the matter-of-fact way she said it made him wince.  "I'm sorry."

 "So am I.  It reminded me of bad things from the alienage.  Things I'd forgotten." 

 They had arrived back at Atharil's tent.  Despite knowing that he wasn't really suffering any ill effects from the previous day's events, Arinna made a show of helping him inside.

 "Arinna," he said reluctantly as she turned to go, "do you think Frey might spend some time with you until Feyndir and Ryneth return?  She is with the hahrens right now...."

 The girl fixed him with a penetrating look, but nodded.  "That's a good idea.  The People will think you're not well enough to look after her."

 "I...yes.  That is the hope."

 Arinna ducked out then, and Atharil lay down on his bed of sweet reeds and wolfskins.  For a while, he watched white clouds rolling by through the small hole in the center of the tent.  Eventually, he turned his face to the wall.


	14. Chapter 14

 The morning passed quietly.  The road they'd set out upon was little more than a set of wagon tracks stretching across the Dirth, used mostly by farmers carrying goods to market.  It passed through small villages that still bore signs of the Orlesian civil war, the outlines of ruined houses visible among the prairie grasses that were slowly covering them over.  Any salvageable material from these buildings had been scavenged and used in new construction, so that the towns they passed looked at once vibrant and crumbling, fresh and decayed.

 Feyndir turned the horses aside every time the road led through one of these recovering hamlets.   He and Ryneth skirted hayfields and crossed fallow farmland instead, only returning to the path when it wound away into the wilderness once more.

 Around midday they noticed a caravan approaching, pulled by a pair of shuffling black horses.  Ryneth began instinctively to move off the road, but Feyndir held up a hand.

 "Wait here," he said.  "I think that's a merchant.  I'll venture a word with him."

 "Are you sure that's --"  But he was gone before she could finish the thought, urging his mount into a trot with a murmured elven word and a pat on the neck.  Ryneth hugged Hugo tightly to her chest, her heart beating fast against her son's back as she watched her bondmate ride up to the wagon.

 He stopped at a good distance, holding his hands out before him to demonstrate he'd no ill intent.  The merchant pulled his horses up, too, and the two conversed across the wide space between them.  Ryneth was too far away to hear the exact words they exchanged, but after just a handful of seconds it became obvious that things were not going well. 

 She hesitated briefly, not wanting to expose Hugo to possible danger.  When the merchant pulled a sword from beneath his seat, however, she knew she could not stand by and wait to see what would happen next.  Cursing under her breath, she followed after Feyndir.

 The merchant, an older man with a comfortable belly and an ill-fitting jacket, stood up as Ryneth drew even with her husband.  He waved his sword in her general direction, a slight tremor in his grip.

 "I don't want trouble," he said.  "I carry nothing that would interest the Dalish, I assure you.  Let me pass!"

 Feyndir gave an exasperated sigh.  "He has bolts of cloth," he told her, pointing out a hand-painted sign on the wagon's side.  "I thought you could make a new dress, but this stubborn idiot won't trade with me."

 "My wares wouldn't suit your kind."  He waggled his blade again.  "Move aside, now."

 Feyndir's face darkened.  "I have coin, shem."  He held up a small sack, shaking it so the merchant could hear the jingle of metal inside.  "Orlesian crowns.  Be reasonable."

 The man's face twisted.  He turned aside and spat.  "And how did you come by those, elf?  Not through an honest day's labor, I'll wager."

 Ryneth put a hand on Feyndir's arm.  "I don't need a new dress.  Really.  Let's just go."

 Feyndir looked at her, then back at the man.  He fingered the staff on his back. 

 "Feyndir!" she hissed.  "It's not worth it.  Please, vhenan."

 He met her gaze again, and his expression softened.  "You're right," he conceded, drawing his horse aside.  "Let this fool be on his way."  He scowled at the man.  "As he says, he has nothing we would want."

 The merchant sat down heavily and flicked his reins, his eyes never leaving Feyndir's.  Ryneth guided her own horse into the tall grass along the roadside, allowing the wagon a wide berth as it passed.  They waited until it was some distance away before resuming their course.

 "Ir abelas," Feyndir said after a few minutes.  "I will try again elsewhere, I promise."

 "I'm not sure it's worth the risk."  She laughed suddenly.  "He didn't even notice Hugo and I aren't elves."

 A smile flickered across Feyndir's face.  "Your hair is covering your ears and you're dressed in Dalish clothing, traveling with an elf... he saw what he expected to see."

 "I wear no vallaslin, though.  I'd have thought he might've noticed that, at least."

 Feyndir was quiet a moment.  "Would you still wish to receive the blood writing, knowing what you know now?"

 "I don't know."  She chewed her lip, considering.  "Everyone else has them...."

 He frowned.  "That is a poor basis for decision-making.  Besides, I suspect that will not always be the case.  I have already spoken with one young apprentice who does not wish to undertake the ceremony."

 Ryneth drew a sharp breath.  "Would Tirsas permit such a thing?"

 "It may not be his choice to make for much longer."  He sounded both wary of and awed by the idea.

 "Would _you _permit it?  Permit someone to pass into adulthood unmarked?"__

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 "I would consider it.  I think I must, under the circumstances."  He sighed.  "A great many changes are coming for the Dalish, vhenan.  The loss of our vallaslin is likely just the beginning."

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 She wished she knew the right words to comfort him, to reassure him that everything would be all right, but she didn't.  They rode in silence for a time, the air growing warmer around them as the sun climbed into the sky.

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 "Do you think Atharil is all right?"

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 Feyndir grunted.  "I wondered how long it would be before you brought him up."  Then, seeing her chagrin, "I healed his wounds, rabbit.  Why shouldn't he be fine?"

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 "I'm not talking about that."  She turned away, frustrated. 

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 "Then what is it?"

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 She recalled Atharil's words the day before.  _My father was one of them, Ryneth.  He was an ancient, and a servant of the Dread Wolf. _But he'd asked her not to tell anyone.  She tried another approach.__

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 "He seems so... lost.  I'm worried about him."

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 Feyndir shrugged.  "Well, I've already shared my wife with him, so I'm not sure what more he expects from me."

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 She pulled up abruptly, her horse whinnying in surprise.  "Feyndir!"

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 "What?"  He continued on for several paces before slowly turning to face her, his expression guarded.

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 Her throat tightened.  "Nothing.  Forget it." 

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 She spurred her horse forward, passing him without a backward glance.  After a few moments, she heard hoofbeats behind her and knew he was following, but he did not draw alongside her.  He remained out of her line of sight, and she refused to look back.  They rode on that way, together yet separate, until the midday heat forced them to rest.

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 "We'll stop here for a bit," Feyndir called, turning his horse off the path and into a copse of young birch trees.  Ryneth followed, still annoyed with him, but glad for the opportunity to dismount and stretch her legs.  There was a small stream nearby; as soon as they had unfastened the saddlebags, Feyndir led the horses off to have a drink.

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 "Your Papae is a nug-humper sometimes," Ryneth told Hugo when they were alone.  She spread a blanket in the shade for them to sit on, and took a wrapped linen from the bag.  "Here," she said, wrinkling her nose as she passed the parcel to her son, "have some stinky halla cheese."

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 "Mmmmm," he said, which was as close to words as he'd come so far.  He peeled back the cloth and bit into the chunk with gusto, his small hands squeezing until his fingers sank into the soft surface.  "Mmm.  Mmm.  Mmm."

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 Ryneth sighed.  "That's cheese."  She drew her knees up and rested her chin on them, watching him eat.  "Can you say 'cheese'?"

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 If he could, he wasn't interested in doing so.  He ignored her, instead focusing all his efforts on making the food disappear.  Ryneth took some dried meat from the bag and offered it to him, breaking it into small pieces so he wouldn't choke.  She was still feeding him, bit by bit, when Feyndir returned.

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 "I hope you are eating some of that, as well."  He flopped down, as much as an elf could flop, and still ended up looking fairly graceful doing it.

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 "I'm not hungry."  She knew she sounded petulant, but didn't care.

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 He laid a hand on hers.  "I'm sorry.  Please eat; we need to ride for several more hours before we can stop for the night."

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 She passed him the bag.  "Here."

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 Feyndir frowned, but dug around in the sack until he found an apple.  He polished it against his tunic before taking a bite.  "Do you remember the first time we ate together?  We were out in the wilds, on a day just like this one.  We had halla cheese then, too."

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 "And I still hate it."  She knew what he was doing, trying to soften her mood by recalling their courtship.  "Anyway, that was in the Hinterlands.  They're much lovelier than the Dirth."

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 "Oh, I don't know about that."  He gestured toward the horizon, where the outline of an immense stone wolf was visible on a mountaintop.  "Look at the beautiful elvhen sculptures."

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 She snorted.  "I would sooner not have an enormous effigy of Fen'Harel staring down at me, thanks."

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 He chuckled.  "Well, good, because I was being just the tiniest bit sarcastic."  He took another bite out of the apple and held it out to her.  "Eat.  This is not your bondmate speaking, it is your First.  We have miles to go, and I don't want you falling out of your saddle with exhaustion."

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 "Oh, fine."  She snatched the apple from his outstretched hand, fighting a smile.  "But only because I find it irresistible when you issue orders."

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 Feyndir lay back with a satisfied smirk, propping himself on one elbow.  "That is precisely why I do it, da'len."

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 "Don't push your luck."  She bit into the apple.  " _Hahren. _"__

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 It was late afternoon when they spotted smoke.  It curled lazily up from somewhere just south of the road, beyond a small stand of trees.  There was too much for it to be from a campfire, and no sign that a village lay in that direction, either.  Feyndir eyed it in wary silence for a few minutes before speaking.

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 "We should investigate that, I think."

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 Ryneth shook her head.  "No.  This isn't a scouting expedition, Feyndir.  Whatever that is, it has nothing to do with us.  We should keep moving."

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 "We can't go much further before setting up camp for the night."  He twisted in his saddle to get a better look.  "If there's danger nearby, it's best we learn the nature of it."

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 Ryneth considered, and reluctantly decided she agreed with him.  It would be safer to know.  "All right, then.  Lead on."

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 They picked their way carefully through the small wood.  When the trees began to thin on the far side, Feyndir dismounted in silence and went ahead on foot.  The clearing was close enough that Ryneth heard his cry of surprise and dismay at what he discovered.

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 "It's a Dalish camp," he said, making his way hastily back through the underbrush toward her, his face ashen.  "Or it was.  It's been burnt, and the entire clan along with it."


	15. Chapter 15

 They stayed only as long as was necessary.  Little of the encampment remained -- a few scorched and overturned aravels, some iron pots, a handful of metal arrowheads.  Rings on the ground indicated where tents had recently stood, and blackened logs still ringed the central campfire where the clan had gathered for shared meals and fellowship.  They found most of the bodies there, piled on top of one another and burned beyond recognition.  Feyndir shook his head at the sight, his eyes filling with tears of helpless rage.

 "I can't even make out which clan this was," he said, anguished at the thought.  "How can I offer proper prayers to Falon'Din...?"

 "I'll check the aravels," Ryneth offered, her voice tight.  "There might be some clue within, something to help identify the dead."  She took Hugo's hand and led him away, the little boy's eyes wide at the gruesome scene.  Feyndir let them go.  He needed time alone, a few minutes even, to mourn his people. 

 He didn't have to wonder who was responsible for the massacre -- the bootprints pressed into the ashes all over the clearing gave plenty of indication who the culprits were.  He might question what had driven the shemlen to attack, but he knew from experience that any explanation was unlikely to be satisfactory.  Humans were fearful creatures, and what they feared they hated, and what they hated they destroyed.  That his family were exceptions did not disprove the rule.

 He heard footsteps behind him and turned, drawing a deep breath.  "Vhenan, have you found --"

 But it wasn't her.  The halla stared at him, wild-eyed and soot-streaked, but unharmed.  Feyndir held out a hand to it, speaking quiet elven words of comfort, and it placed its muzzle against his palm.  He stroked the deer's neck, crooning until it stopped trembling and stood still, mesmerized by the sound of his voice.

 "You must not linger here, lethallen," he told the animal.  "These people have passed into the Beyond; your communion with them is at an end.  Return to the wilds whence you came, and find comfort amongst your brothers and sisters."

 He gave the halla a parting pat and it bounded away, disappearing into the trees on the far side of the clearing.  At least something had survived the slaughter.  With luck, many of the clan's halla might have jumped the low fence of their enclosure and escaped -- the pens were never really designed to prevent them departing the People if they so chose.

 With difficulty, Feyndir straightened his shoulders and turned his back to the pile of smouldering corpses.  He stepped away, over to where Hugo stood chewing his fingers beside a toppled aravel.  Ryneth squeezed out the sideways door as he approached, gripping a staff in one hand.

 "This must have been the Keeper's home," she said, handing it to him.  "Scrolls everywhere, boxes full of dried herbs...it looks just like the interior of Tirsas's tent.  I didn't find anything with a clan name on it, though."

 Feyndir turned the staff in his hands.  "They must have been taken completely by surprise for this to have been left behind."  He studied the engravings on the ironbark, running his fingers lightly over the elvhen writing.  "No...."

 Ryneth was watching him with concern.  "Do you recognize it?"

 He nodded, feeling suddenly cold.  "This belonged to Isora."  He looked up,  searching his wife's expression for some reaction, and realized she had never known the woman's name.  "She was... ah...."

 Understanding dawned in Ryneth's eyes.  "Oh," she said, sounding faintly disgusted.  Then, more gently, "Oh.  That's... I'm sorry."

 Feyndir looked down at Hugo.  "If Atharil had arrived a few minutes later that day, I might well have had a child in this camp."  He shivered at the thought.  "Poor Isora.  She was every bit as displeased with the arrangement as I was, you know.  I wonder if her father ever allowed her to bond with her lover."

 Ryneth crossed her arms.  "If she was Keeper of this clan, then presumably her father was no longer able to forbid it."

 He smiled faintly.  "That is true.  I hope she managed to find some happiness before... before all this."  He let out a deep breath.  "Well, at least we have a clan name -- Orannan.  May Falon'Din lead them to their rest."

 "May he guide their feet and calm their souls."  Ryneth recited the blessing dutifully, but without much conviction.  Feyndir felt grateful to her for going through the motions, despite whatever doubts and misgivings she had about the Creators.  He wasn't sure himself how he felt about the elven pantheon anymore, but what else could they do?  The dead required prayers to help them navigate the shifting paths of the Beyond.  Feyndir knew no other words to offer.

 He cleared his throat, mindful not to lose his composure.  "Will you gather together as many scrolls as you can while I perform rites for the dead?  We should preserve as much of the clan's history and knowledge as possible."

 Ryneth nodded.  "Of course."  She glanced toward the woods.  "But let's be quick, all right?  I'm eager to leave this place behind."

 He kissed her forehead.  "We'll be gone before the sun reaches the treetops."

 

 They stayed off the road after that, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the remains of the Dalish camp as they could.  Feyndir took Hugo on his horse, and they rode hard wherever the terrain would allow it.  When they finally stopped for the evening, the elf set a half-dozen separate wards over their small campsite, Hugo clapping his hands as he watched the magic erupt in sparks over his father's head and cascade down all around them.

 "I'll be back shortly," Feyndir said when he was finished, "and I'll bring meat for the fire."  He cast his staff aside and picked up his bow and quiver, fastening the latter to his back with a practised ease.

 Ryneth shook her head.  "You don't have to...."

 He forced a smile, hoping to disguise the anxiety he felt.  "I won't be gone long.  There's plenty of game in this area."

 "Then let me hunt it."  She stood up from her place beside the fire.  "You stay with Hugo."

 Gods, how he adored her.  "No.  Night will fall soon, and I see better in the dark than you." 

 She crossed her arms.  "That may be, but I am the hunter here."

 He smiled again, and this time it was genuine.  "I know, but let me do this anyway, rabbit.  Let me take care of you and Hugo.  After what we saw today... I need to feel I can do that.  Can you understand?"

 She hesitated before giving her consent, her eyes over-bright with sudden emotion.  "Be careful."

 Feyndir nodded gravely and slipped away before she could change her mind.

 

 He returned with more than dinner, a blanket tied at the corners slung over one shoulder.

 "Don't be angry with me," he said, handing over a pair of nugs.  "I wouldn't have done it if I didn't think it necessary."

 Ryneth eyed the makeshift sack warily.  "What is that, Feyndir?"

 He untied the knots and showed her.  "The contents of a farmer's washing line.  I think the dress should fit you."

 She set the nugs aside and picked up the garment, running her fingers across the pale lavender fabric.  It was soft but plain, a simple country frock, and yet Feyndir could see she longed to wear it.

 "It's beautiful," she breathed, holding it against her frame, "but you shouldn't have taken the risk.  My Dalish clothes are fine."

 He smiled.  "I'm glad you like it, though I have to admit your preference wasn't my sole motivation.  I think, all things considered, it might be best if we made the rest of our journey in disguise."

 Her eyes flicked past him to the remainder of the stolen clothing.  "Wait," she said, "you're going to wear _those _?"__

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 He shrugged, but felt his face grow hot.  "From a certain distance, we'll appear a human family.  It will be safer, I think."

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 She put a hand to her mouth, clearly amused but trying not to appear so.  "Put them on now.  I want to see."

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 Feyndir groaned.  "This isn't some child's game of dress-up, rabbit."

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 "It could be, if you'd cooperate."  It had been a long time, he realized with a pang, since he'd last seen that playful glint in her eyes.

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 "All right," he agreed.  "You get those nugs on a spit, and I'll --" he gestured helplessly, "-- I'll put on the shemlen clothes."  Anything to see her smile.


	16. Chapter 16

 "Get up."

 Atharil threw an arm over his face, dazed by the sunlight.  "Close that flap, you're blinding me."

 Arinna let it fall.  "Get up, Atharil.  Freylen is asking for you."

 For just a second, his heart skipped a beat.  Then he groaned.  "Frey, you mean.  I do not call my daughter by her full name, as you well know."

 The Second shrugged.  "If her name bothers you so much, perhaps you should have chosen another one."

 He sat up, wincing at the stiffness in his back.  He couldn't tell whether it was the aftereffects of Feyndir's magic he was feeling, or simply the result of lying too long in one place.  "You may be Second, but that is no way to speak to your elders, Arinna."

 She looked about.  "Your tent is a mess.  What have you been doing holed up in here these  past few days, anyway?"

 Atharil ran a hand through his tangled hair in a half-hearted attempt to smooth it.  "I don't know.  Sleeping, mostly."

 Arinna frowned.  "Well, get dressed.  We're going for a walk."

 They left the encampment behind, Frey scampering excitedly ahead of them.  Atharil limped along at what he hoped was a believable pace for someone with his supposed injuries.  Once they passed beyond the view of the sentries, however, he straightened and dropped Arinna's guiding arm.

 "Where to, then?" 

 "The river, I think.  You stink."  She wrinkled her nose.

 Atharil lifted one arm and gave an experimental sniff.  "I don't smell anything.  We elves don't really suffer from body odor, you know."

 Arinna snorted impatiently.  "Not like humans, perhaps -- you can smell some of them a mile away.  But trust me, it's there.  Your whole tent stank of depressed elf."

 The comment, delivered with an air of casual frankness, caught Atharil off guard.  Was his melancholy really so obvious, even to a da'len like Arinna?  He glanced ahead, watching as Frey chased a white butterfly, and hoped his young daughter had not also picked up on his brooding.

 "All right," he conceded.  "Perhaps a swim will lift my spirits.  Anything's possible, I suppose."

 She nodded.  "That's my thinking, of late.  Anything's possible."

  
 It did help, some.  Atharil lay back in the cold water, clad in only his leggings, his unbound hair billowing about his shoulders, and stared up at a brilliant blue sky dotted with thin white clouds.  The current was slow, and he was able to prevent himself being carried downstream with just the smallest movements.  He shut his eyes and listened to the birdsong overhead, identifying the calls one by one, placing each bird in relation to himself --

 "Papae!"

 He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly.  Frey was collecting pebbles in the shallows; she held one aloft for his approval.

 "Pretty rock!"

 He smiled and tipped himself forward, his feet searching for the riverbed.  "That is indeed a beautiful rock, da'len.  Well spotted."  He stood, the water reaching only to his waist, and waded over to her.  Arinna, seated on the grassy bank, glanced up from the scroll she was studying and smiled at them both.

 "I keep it."  She grinned.

 Atharil knelt beside the child and looked into her wide, violet eyes.  He now had a name for the person who gave them to her, he realized with a shock.  A name, and something of a history.  _Felassan _.  Her grandfather, a being who had existed for thousands of years only to serve Fen'Harel.  It was beyond his imagining.__

____

____

 "You don't truly want this rock, Frey.  It is of no use to you or the clan."

____

____

 "I keep it."  She tightened her grip on the stone, her lower lip jutting out.  "It's pretty."

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____

 Atharil sighed.  "You're right; it is pretty.  But now you have looked on it, and you can hold its beauty in your mind.  You do not need to possess it."  He tilted his head.  "Besides, rocks are heavy, and carrying them will slow you down.  Leave this one here, where it belongs." 

____

____

 Frey opened her tiny hand and looked at the rock.  She started to tip it toward the water, but at the last moment stuffed it into the pocket of her dress, instead.  Atharil could see the fabric bulging, the stitching strained with the weight of many more such stones.  He stifled a chuckle.

____

____

 "Very well, then," he said, standing up.  "I had thought to teach you to float today, but if you prefer your rocks...."  He turned away, and heard splashing behind him.

____

____

 "No, Papae!"  Frey emptied her pocket as fast as her little hand could grab the stones and drop them into the river.  "I swim with you.  I swim!"

____

____

 Atharil smiled, at once proud of her decision and saddened at her desperation to please him.  She had missed him, clearly.  He'd not spent much time with her since the incident with the Dread Wolf's agents, afraid that he might somehow be dangerous to the child.  Now he swept her into his arms and hugged her tightly.

____

____

 "I am happy at your choice, Freylen," he murmured into her ear, forcing himself to use her full name.  "Ar lath ma, da'len."

____

__

  
   
  _Pull her under. ___

_____ _

_____ _

 Freylen lay her back on the water's surface, giggling.  Atharil's arms stretched beneath her, his hands only lightly supporting her small frame.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Very good," he told her, attempting to ignore the intrusive thought.  "You're doing it."

_____ _

_____ _

 "It's easy!"  She wiggled her bare toes, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness.  Her hair drifted about her head like a halo.

_____ _

_____ _

  _Drown the pup._

_____ _

_____ _

 His chest constricted as he struggled to disobey the whispered command.  Blinking in confusion, he drew a ragged breath.  He shouldn't be hearing Andruil's voice; this was no moment of weakness.  He wasn't under stress, he was at peace --

_____ _

_____ _

 Sweet, sharp laughter filled his mind.  _You are my hunter.  Only I can grant you peace. ___

_____ _

_____ _

 He felt his hands closing of their own accord around his daughter's clothing, catching the fabric of her dress as it billowed about her in the current.  The muscles in his arms tightened, preparing to do the goddess's bidding....

_____ _

_____ _

  _Loose the arrow.  Tighten the snare. ___

_____ _

_____ _

 "Arinna!"  He pushed Frey away, clapping his hands over his ears.  "Take her from me!"

_____ _

_____ _

 "Atharil?!  What are you doing?"  The Second dropped her scroll in the grass and plunged into the river fully clothed.  Atharil watched as she waded out to Frey, who was foundering now, gasping for breath as the river carried her slowly downstream.  Arinna plucked her from the water and the child clung to her, coughing and shivering in fright and surprise.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Ir abelas..." Atharil began, knowing the words were not enough.  He reached a hand toward them and pulled it back, ashamed. 

_____ _

_____ _

 Arinna took a cautious step backward, and then another.  "I think you are unwell, Atharil.  I suspected you were, but I didn't realize how deeply."

_____ _

_____ _

 He nodded, hugging his arms to his chest.  "I'm sorry, Arinna.  Take Frey back to camp for me, please.  I will follow after."

_____ _

_____ _

  _You need not.  The water is warm.... ___

_____ _

_____ _

 And it was.  Suddenly, it was as if he were standing in the Pools of the Sun, the river like a comforting blanket as it flowed about him.

_____ _

_____ _

 "Of course."  Arinna moved toward the riverbank, Frey's face buried against her shoulder.  She paused at the water's edge.  "Only... only promise me you will speak with Keeper Tirsas when you return.  He may know some way to help."

_____ _

_____ _

_Lie down.  Lie down and rest. ___

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil couldn't meet the girl's gaze.  All his focus was concentrated on resisting Andruil's call, yet he wasn't even certain he wanted to.  Without him, Frey would be safe.  Everyone would be safe. 

_____ _

_____ _

 "I promise," he lied.  


	17. Chapter 17

 Sean poked at the dying fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.  Hendry, who'd been dozing beside him with an open book on his lap, raised his head sharply at the movement.

 Sean glanced at him.  "How fares the Fade tonight?"

 "I don't know; I wasn't dreaming."  He yawned and stretched.  "I think I'm going to turn in, Father.  Elodie disapproves of me sitting up until all hours."

 The older man grunted.  "Be off, then.  Happy wife, happy life."

 He grinned.  "She says the same thing, you know.  I think the two of you conspire against me while I'm in the fields."  He was just setting the book back on its shelf when a quiet knock at the door startled them both.  They exchanged worried looks, and Hendry reached above the fireplace for his sword.

 "Who's there?"  Sean called out, struggling to his feet.  It was harder and harder to get out of his chair these days, though he didn't like to admit it.  "We're armed, and we will defend ourselves!"

 There was no answer for a time, the only sound the night wind howling around the cabin.  Hendry adjusted his grip on the hilt of his weapon and moved quietly to position himself between his father and the door.

 Then, finally, "It is Feyndir, Father.  I am with Ryneth, and --"

 "Shit!"  Hendry let the sword fall to the floor with a clatter and rushed to unbar the door.  He flung it open, grabbed the elf by his shirtfront, and yanked him inside.  Ryneth followed with a sleeping Hugo in her arms.  "What are you two doing here, and at this hour?  Where are your horses?"  He closed the door behind them, but not before peering up and down the road in both directions.

 Feyndir blinked at him, deep circles beneath his eyes.  "They're already in the barn, brother.  It is good to see you, too."

 Hendry took a step back, eyeing up the pair of them.  "What're you wearing?  Have you left the Dalish?"

 Rolling his eyes at the undisguised hopefulness in his brother-in-law's voice, Feyndir plucked self-consciously at his stolen woollen shirt.  It hung off his narrow shoulders, lending him the appearance of a gangly, slightly-undernourished adolescent human.  His hair hung loose over his ears, the tips protruding as if in rebellion against his attempt at concealing them.

 "No, Hendry, we have not deserted the People.  This is merely an improvised disguise."

 Sean nodded his approval.  "The locals have been patrolling the roads hereabouts, on the lookout for Dalish.  Thank the Maker you took precautions."

 Ryneth sat down heavily at the table.  "We've kept off the road since we passed a burned encampment two days ago."

 "You saw it, then."  Hendry shook his head and sank onto a bench opposite his sister.  He reached his hand across the table and took one of hers.  "For a time, we feared it might be your clan.  We didn't dare ask too many questions, though."

 Feyndir took a seat beside Hendry.  "What happened?  Why did the shemlen attack them?"

 Hendry looked at Sean before answering.  "From what we've heard, the clan had become brazen.  They were robbing travellers in broad daylight, stealing the farmers' druffalo...."

 "They believed they were under the protection of the Dread Wolf," Sean said bluntly, arching an eyebrow at Feyndir.  "Is this a common belief among your people, now?"

 The elf studied his hands.  "I hope not, but I don't know for certain.  Clan Lutharra is in disagreement about what the return of Fen'Harel might mean."

 Hendry snorted.  "Well, no elven god came swooping in to rescue those poor idiots, that's for certain."

 Feyndir grimaced.  " _When did I say that I would save you? _" he murmured, almost to himself.__

____

____

 "What's that?"  Hendry looked confused.

____

____

 Ryneth shifted Hugo from one leg to the other.  "Part of an old elven tale.  The Dread Wolf rescued a village from a monster, but only after it had eaten every single adult and was about to devour the children, as well."

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____

 Hendry wrinkled his nose.  "Charming.  And that's the fellow you Dalish are pinning your hopes on, is it?  That's your champion?"

____

____

 "At least Fen'Harel has not turned his face from his people, as your Maker has."  Feyndir spoke quietly, but there was menace in his tone.

____

____

 Sean cleared his throat in the resulting silence.  "You must both be exhausted," he said, reaching to lift his grandson from his daughter's arms.  "The three of you can take the back room.  I'll sleep beside the fire."

____

____

 Feyndir stood up at once.  "Hahren, no.  We would not put you out -- let us sleep in the barn.  The hayloft is large, and we've brought blankets."

____

____

 "My grandson will not sleep in a hayloft while I have a bed to offer him."  Sean smiled down at the slumbering child in his arms.  "I know close quarters make you ill at ease, Feyndir, but I think you'd all best stay in the house tonight.  The barn is not secure, and our neighbors already consider us suspicious.  If anyone were to come poking about --"

____

__

 Hendry scowled.  "Elodie is not even Dalish; she shouldn't have to put up with their whispers and veiled accusations."  
   
 "Be that as it may," Sean continued, shooting his son a reproachful look, "folks around here are spooked.  They're spooked by the whole idea of this Fenerel --"

____

____

 "Fen'Harel."  Feyndir looked down.  "Sorry.  Go on."

____

____

 Sean put a hand to his temples and massaged them.  "I'd nearly forgotten how exasperating it is to have you two boys in the same room together.  _Anyway _, they were already frightened, and the rogue clan only deepened their fear.  To make things worse, they believe a few elves may have survived the attack, and they've been hunting for them day and night.  Your timing for a visit could not be worse, I'm afraid."__

__

__

____

____

 Hendry nodded.  "Why are you here, anyway?  We weren't expecting to see you for months."

__

__

____

____

 Feyndir and Ryneth exchanged a look.

__

__

____

____

 "It is rather a long story," Feyndir began, "and, as you guessed, we are weary from travel.  Might we discuss it in the morning?"

__

__

____

____

 "Of course."  Sean smiled.  "Elodie will be delighted when she wakes to find you here.  She'll likely bake a cake."


	18. Chapter 18

  
 It took all of Atharil's will to leave the river behind, to force his legs to carry him up onto the bank and away from the gentle, beckoning water.  He did not immediately head back to camp.  Instead, he staggered through the woods and out onto the prairie, Andruil continuing to pull at his mind.  She whispered with the voice of the waving grasses, pointing out rock formations from which he might throw himself.  She suggested he might draw his dagger's thin blade up his arms.  He might lie down and never get up, and wouldn't that be best? 

 Atharil walked until his feet ached, staring dully ahead, trying to keep his thoughts empty as he waited for the Huntress to lose the energy or the patience to continue her call.  Little by little, she did.  Still he walked on, only turning toward home when his mind at last grew completely silent.

 It was after dark when the hunter finally stumbled back to his tent, exhausted and heartsick.  He removed all his weapons and stacked them in a corner, covering them over with pelts to keep them from his line of sight.  Then he lay down, ignoring the rumble of his empty stomach, and tried desperately to fall asleep.

 He was still lying there, staring blankly up into darkness, when he heard familiar voices outside.

 "This is his tent, hahren."  The sentry sounded troubled.  "But surely you knew --"

 "Thank you.  You are excused." 

 Atharil had never heard Tirsas sound so clipped, so impatient.  Surprised, he sat up just as the Keeper stooped and, without notice, entered his tent. 

 "Keeper?" he asked, caught off guard by the man's boldness.  "Do you need something?"

 Tirsas took a perfunctory glance about the tent's interior, his nose wrinkling slightly at what he saw.  Then his gaze settled on Atharil, and his expression softened.  "I do not.  You, however, require my assistance rather urgently.  Come."

 Atharil staggered to his feet and followed the Keeper outside.  "Arinna told you what happened at the river, I take it," he began uneasily.  "I can explain, but --"

 "Stop."  Tirsas clasped his hands behind his back and frowned.  "I'm aware of what occurred, yes.  But we will not discuss it here."  By the light of a nearby campfire, he studied Atharil's face until the hunter was forced to look away, unnerved by the piercing quality of his gaze.  "Accompany me to my tent." 

 He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Atharil no choice but to trail along after him.  Curious faces turned in their direction as they passed through the center of the encampment, the Keeper walking at such a clip that Atharil was forced to trot to keep up.  The hunter grimaced, hoping none of his clansmen were taking notice of his suspiciously rapid recovery.

 The Keeper's home was twice the size of most Dalish tents, and lit from within by its own small fire.  Once they were both inside, Tirsas tied the door flap shut and cast a quick spell over it.  Then, he knelt before the chest in which he kept his rarest and most valuable herbs.

 "Sit," he commanded without glancing in Atharil's direction.  He lifted the heavy lid and peered inside.

 Atharil lowered himself onto a thick woollen blanket, crossing his tired legs before him.  "Are you feeling all right, Tirsas?" he ventured, watching as the elf plucked various dried leaves from jars and held them up to the firelight, examining their quality.  "You aren't usually so... terse."

 "Hmph.  I apologize."  He did not sound particularly regretful.

 "All right, then."  Atharil felt more confused than ever.  "What are the herbs for, Keeper?"

 The elf snorted.  "I am not your Keeper.  That much ought to be obvious, even to you."  He picked up a wooden bowl and dropped the leaves into it.  "Your father would have perceived the change at once."

 Atharil felt as though a block of ice had settled in his stomach.  He cast a furtive glance toward the door, but remembered the spell upon it.  "Where is Tirsas, then?  What have you done to him?  Who are you?"

 The elf clucked softly.  "You should have asked your last question first, da'len."  He picked up a pestle and began to grind the herbs.  "Your Keeper is asleep and unharmed.  He will likely not remember my having borrowed his body."

 "That's... I didn't know such a thing was possible."  Atharil's throat had gone dry; it was difficult to get the words out.  "You're some kind of mage, clearly.  But no ordinary one."

 "Yes, and no."  He set the pestle aside and took a small vial from a pouch sewn into the chest's side.  The liquid within swirled blue, glowing faintly in his hand.  "Drink this."

 Atharil gave a short, barking laugh of disbelief.  "That's lyrium!"

 "And?"

 He crossed his arms.  "I'm not a mage.  Besides, Tirsas keeps that for emergencies -- he'll kill me if I take it."

 Annoyance flashed in the stranger's borrowed eyes.  "Do you think I would be here if this were not an emergency?  Mage or no, you have more magic in your veins than most of this world's mages, Atharil."  He held out the vial, insistent.  "I do not ask this idly."

 Atharil took a deep breath before accepting it.  The glass felt unexpectedly warm against his palm.  "Who are you?" he asked again, his gaze fixed on the slowly-churning substance.   "You mentioned my father."

 "I did, and so you have your answer."  He straightened his shoulders.  "Would you prefer I depart, and allow Andruil to drive you to madness?  Or will you accept my help?"

 Atharil said nothing but unstoppered the vial, draining it in one quick motion before he could change his mind.  It tasted sweet on his tongue and burned the back of his throat.  He coughed, his vision doubling momentarily.

 "Well done."  The being within Tirsas emptied the bowl of crushed herbs over the fire, the flames blazing blue and purple in response.  Thick, violet smoke began to fill the tent at once, its scent heavy and intoxicating.  "Lie down now, and together we will enter the Fade."

 Atharil found the order surprisingly easy to follow, despite the unfamiliar thrumming that was growing within him, spreading outward from his center as the lyrium took hold.  A profound fatigue had settled over him almost as soon as he'd begun to breathe the perfumed air, and now he found his limbs were growing too heavy to support.  He lay down beside the fire, his eyes fluttering shut of their own accord, and the Dread Wolf lay close beside him.

 Within seconds they were both asleep.

 


	19. Chapter 19

 "He's an old man, Feyndir.  You can't expect him to sleep on the ground and live on bugs and tree bark!"  Hendry leaned back against a fence post and crossed his arms.  "No.  He's not going with you."

 The elf scowled.  "You are his son, not his master.  It's not your place to tell him what he can and cannot do."

 "Not my place?"  The young man's face grew flushed.  He gestured at the fields around them, full of golden wheat rippling in the breeze.  "Who do you think keeps this farm running?  Who takes care of him?  Elodie and I --"

 "Well, then I should think you'd be happy for us to take him off your hands."

 "That's not what I meant!"  He kicked at a clod of dirt in frustration.  "He isn't like Ryneth, you know.  He can't learn to be Dalish -- he's too set in his ways."

 Feyndir nodded, enthusiasm sparking in his wide eyes.  "Yes, there is so much he could teach the People!"  He laid a hand on Hendry's shoulder.  "We would look after him, brother.  He would be a respected elder, and he'd have his own aravel, and --"

 Hendry held up one hand.  "Spare me the sales pitch, please."  He studied Feyndir's earnest expression and shook his head.  "First my sister, and now my father.  The Dalish really do steal folks away, I guess."

 Feyndir squeezed his shoulder.  "You will see him again, just as you do Ryneth."

 Hendry grunted.  "That's assuming he agrees to join your clan, of course.  You still haven't asked him."

 

 "Hugo has grown so much since the last time I saw him."  Elodie smiled as the little boy pointed at a drawing in one of Sean's books.  He was sitting on his grandfather's knee, the older man reading aloud to him from a collection of Andrastian children's stories.  Ryneth knew the tale so well that she could almost have recited it from memory.  Instead, she cleared her throat and set down her cup of tea. 

 "He's almost a head taller than Frey, now." 

 Elodie glanced across the table at her, her green eyes widening slightly.  "I see.  He's tall for his age, then?"

 Ryneth shook her head.  "I don't think so.  Not for a human child, anyway."

 "Of course."  Elodie's smile wavered.  "I forgot... she would be smaller than him...."

 "Smaller, but quick as lightning.  And she climbs everything.   I sometimes have to peel her off the aravel's walls as if she were a spider."  Ryneth started to chuckle at the thought, but stopped at the pained expression on Elodie's face.  She reached for the woman's hand.  "If you'd like, I've brought a letter from Atharil...."

 Elodie snorted.  "Atharil?  Since when can he even write his own name?"

 Ryneth felt blood rush to her face, but held her tongue.  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the carefully-folded scrap of paper, pushing it across the table toward the city elf.  "His spelling is sometimes creative, but it should be legible."

 Elodie regarded the paper without picking it up.  "You're teaching him yourself?"

 Ryneth shrugged.  "There aren't many in our clan who are literate, so he asked me."

 "The Atharil I remember was seldom interested in anything he couldn't fill with arrows."  Elodie picked up her cup and took a measured sip.  "I wonder at the change, that's all."

 Suddenly, Ryneth was unpleasantly reminded of Elodie's Orlesian upbringing.  "Atharil doesn't find much joy in hunting since Freylen's death," she replied stiffly.  "Does that puzzle you, too?"

 "No."  She blanched slightly, and Ryneth released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.  "No, I know it has been difficult for him.  I didn't mean to imply --"  She stood up suddenly, her chair tipping back as she pushed away from the table.

 "What is it?"  Ryneth stood, too, following her gaze to the front door.  But she could hear it, too, now that her attention had been drawn to it.  Hoofbeats on the road, far away but approaching quickly. 

 Sean lifted Hugo, allowing the book they'd been reading to fall to the floor. 

 "Steady on now," he said, his voice unnaturally light.  "The boys know what to say.  Everything will be fine, I'm certain of it."

 

 The two men drew their horses alongside the fence, their hands already resting on the hilts of their swords.

 "Good morning, Tad."  Hendry nodded to the younger one, a brown-haired youth whose hair fell across his eyes.  "Morning, Dugan."

 The older man squinted hard at Feyndir.  "You collecting elves now, Hendry?  One not enough?"

 Hendry shrugged.  "This man is in my sister's employ.  She's visiting us."

 "Ryneth, is it?"  Tad smiled.  "I met her and her son Hugo the last time she was here.  Is she nearby?"  He turned in his saddle, glancing about hopefully.

 Hendry gestured toward the house.  "She's inside with Elodie and my father.  Go and say hello, if you like."

 Dugan rolled his eyes.  "We didn't stop to socialize."  He jerked his chin in Feyndir's direction.  "If this is your sister's rabbit, why does he have Dalish markings?"

 Feyndir studied the ground at his feet.  "A mistake of my youth, serah.  My mother was Dalish, but I have long since left that life behind."

 Dugan grunted.  "And what of your pagan gods?  We've been hearing a lot about some 'Dreaded Wolf' of late -- what do you know of him?"

 Feyndir shook his head.  "Please... I've sung the Chant faithfully for many years now.  I don't know anything about any wolf god."  He glanced quickly up at the men before bowing his head again.

 Tad nodded amicably.  "Of course you don't.  Ryneth is a fine Andrastian woman; she would never keep a heathen manservant.  No doubt she took pity on your poor ruined face and offered you employment when no one else would." 

 Hendry gave a short laugh.  "I suspect the decision had less to do with my sister's saintly nature, and more to do with necessity.  A reformed Dalish can't demand much in the way of compensation, and a widow hasn't the resources to be too picky about whom she hires."

 Tad nodded again.  "She lost her husband at Adamant, didn't she?  It must be hard raising the boy by herself... does she not consider remarrying?"

 "Why?  Do you mean to propose to her, Tad?"  Hendry grinned, and the young man's face turned scarlet.

 "I...well," he stammered.

 Dugan rubbed at his temples.  "Andraste, grant me patience."  He frowned down at Hendry.  "Are you willing to take responsibility for this elf, then?  If he causes any trouble around here --"

 Hendry held up his hands.  "He won't.  You have my word."

 The man took a long last look at Feyndir, considering.  "I suggest you don't wander too far from your mistress, rabbit," he said at last.  "The Brightons may harbor a certain softness for foreigners, but you'll find no one else around here shares the sentiment."

 

 When the men had disappeared around a bend in the road, Feyndir leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, his face pale.  Hendry let out an audible sigh of relief.

 "I think that went rather well, all things considered."

 The elf looked up at him, incredulous.  "Did you miss the part where the shemlen boy offered to comfort my grieving widow?"

 Hendry waved a hand dismissively.  "Not _your _widow -- the widow of some imaginary human bloke who got his head bashed in by crazy Wardens."__

____

____

 Feyndir grimaced.  "Good to know she'd have options if I suddenly crossed the Veil, I suppose."

____

____

 Hendry clapped him on the back.  "You were brilliant, by the way.  So humble, so deferential... what a pleasant change it made."

____

____

 "Fenedhis lasa, Hendry."

____

____

 Hendry laughed.  "You think I don't know what that means?  Ryneth grumbles it every time she stubs a toe.  You have corrupted my once-sweet sister, and she now swears like an elven sailor...."  He considered a moment.  "Is there even such a thing as elven sailors?"

____

____

 "How do you think we cross the Waking Sea?"  Feyndir frowned.  "And her rough language is not due to my influence.  You can thank Atharil for that."

____

____

 Hendry leaned back on the fence post, a dark look crossing his face.  "She spends a lot of time with that one, does she?"

____

____

 Feyndir shrugged.  "They're both hunters.  Sometimes they're away for days at a time, so it's good they can depend upon one another.  I would worry for either of them on their own."

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 Hendry looked doubtful.  "That doesn't bother you?  You don't get lonely?"

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 "A Dalish is never alone, brother."  He chuckled.  "I have Hugo to keep me company, and I look after Frey, as well.  My responsibilities as a First keep me close to camp, but Ryneth need not be similarly constrained."

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 Hendry was quiet for a long moment.  A cicada buzzed in the silence, and Feyndir searched about for it.

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 "I don't trust Atharil, Feyndir," Hendry said finally.  "I don't like him.  He makes me nervous."

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 "Yes, well, I don't blame you."  Feyndir tilted his head and moved a few paces to the right, listening.  "Atharil has that effect on most humans, but you needn't fear for Ryneth's safety.  He would never harm her."

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 "As he would never harm Elodie?"

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 Feyndir stopped looking for the insect and turned to Hendry.  "What does that mean?"

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 "Nothing."  He looked away, toward the distant line of trees that marked the edge of the Emerald Graves.  "Only... you must see how selfish he is.  Once he had what he wanted from Elodie, he went back to his little Dalish girl and left her to deal with the consequences."

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 Feyndir scowled.  "That 'little Dalish girl' was my sister, Hendry."

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 "My point exactly!"  Hendry ran a hand through his hair.  "Your sister, my wife... that little blond-haired bastard really works his way through the women folk, doesn't he?"

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 The elf considered.  "If it helps you to know, Atharil and I had a falling out after that."  The cicada sounded again, and he whirled in the direction of the sound.  "I thought he was being unfaithful to Freylen, but it turned out the situation was not as clear as I believed.  It would have been better if I'd let them work it out for themselves."

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 Hendry frowned and cleared his throat.  "I just don't want to see Ryneth get hurt.  Or you."

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 Feyndir located the insect and picked it up by the sides of its body.  Its legs flailed in the air.  "I hear your warning, brother," he said softly, examining the creature.  "But you don't know Atharil like I do.  I assure you that nothing occurs between him and Ryneth without my consent."

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 Hendry watched the bug squirm with a kind of repulsed fascination.  "You're not... please tell me you're not about to eat that."

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 Feyndir smiled.  "Of course not.  These are Hugo's favorite -- I'm going to offer it to my son."


	20. Chapter 20

 "Ir abelas, Atharil.  In my haste, it would appear I've frightened you.  That was not my intent."

 The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.  It was within his mind but also in his ears, as real and insubstantial as the shifting, roiling ground beneath his feet, or the racing greenish clouds above his head.

 He heard a soft chuckle.  "You might try envisioning more pleasant surroundings, da'len.  Think of some peaceful place you have known, and focus on the memory of it."

 A familiar meadow, sunlit and dappled with tiny white flowers, spread out before the hunter as he recalled it.  At the far edge of the clearing, tall pines swayed in a gentle breeze, and at its center stood a small, vine-covered elvhen ruin.

 "Ah."  The voice was beside him now, speaking into his left ear.  "I believe I remember this place, too.  Shall I reconstruct it for you?"

 Atharil nodded, too disconcerted to speak.  He'd never experienced a dream like this.  His mind felt as clear as if he were awake, and when he dug his fingernails into his palms, he felt pain.  This was _real _, and yet it wasn't.__

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 The ruin wavered.  The vines fell away and disappeared, and the broken stone arches they'd hidden reconstructed themselves and stretched upward until they met in gentle points.  A roof appeared, and then braziers lit with flames in impossible colors.  A manicured garden burst into life all around the temple, complete with a shimmering eluvian flanked by statues of halla.

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 "This shrine was devoted to Ghilan'nain, as you can now see."

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 Atharil caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to find another elf standing beside him, his hands clasped behind his back in the same way Tirsas's had been earlier.  He was dressed in a simple tunic of green silk, a wolf's pelt draped across one shoulder and tucked into a braided leather belt.  He was tall for an elf, as his agents had been, and bald.  Beyond that, he looked surprisingly ordinary.

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 The hunter peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth with effort.  How was it that his throat had gone dry, even though his body wasn't really there?  "So, you're him," he managed.  "You're... you're...."

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 "Solas."  The elf inclined his head, a slight smirk on his lips.  "Unless you prefer 'Bringer of Nightmares'?"

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 Atharil found himself returning the smile despite the fact that his heart was hammering against his imaginary ribs.  "This place certainly doesn't resemble a nightmare."

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 The Dread Wolf arched a thin brow.  "I have omitted the temple slaves from this version, of course."

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 "Oh."  Atharil looked around again, picturing the grounds peopled with servants.  Almost at once, the thin outlines of elves wearing Ghilan'nain's vallaslin began to take shape, insubstantial as smoke.

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 "Stop that."  Solas frowned, and the forms dissipated.

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 Atharil started.  "I didn't mean to...."

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 "Be mindful," the elf grunted.  "Mage or not, you are your father's son.  Everything you think and feel can have consequences here -- especially with the amount of lyrium you ingested."

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 Atharil fell silent.  Part of him wanted to ask more about Felassan, but the edge in Solas's tone gave him pause.  He was beginning to wonder whether his father had somehow upset the Creator.  "Where is Tirsas?" he inquired instead.  "Are you still --"

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 "Your Keeper is free."  Solas sighed.  "I regret it was necessary to assume control of him, however briefly.  It is a form of violation, and I had hoped to avoid it."

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 Atharil was surprised by the sincerity in his voice.  "You're... unhappy about it?  You really feel badly?"

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 "Yes."  His eyes narrowed.  "Does that surprise you, Dalish child?  You have been brought up to believe I'm an unfeeling monster, no doubt, and yet that same upbringing would have you prostrate yourself before me as a god."  He seized the back of Atharil's tunic and hauled him roughly back to his feet.  "That was not a suggestion!"

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 Atharil shrank in his grip.  Instinctively, uselessly, he raised his arms to cover his face.  "Ir abelas," he breathed.  "Have mercy, Great Wolf!"

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 "Solas," the bald elf repeated, releasing his hold on the hunter.  "I do not offer my name lightly, Atharil.  Have the curtesy to use it."

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 "I'm sorry... Solas."  Atharil could feel his legs trembling, and once again marvelled at how real the dream felt.  If he were to piss himself, would he be able to imagine it away? 

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 "Tel'abelas.  It is not your fault, da'len."  He took a deep breath before continuing.  "At any rate, I did not bring you here to convince you the Dalish are mistaken about me.  In some ways, perhaps they are not."

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 Atharil nodded, uncertain what he meant, and Solas sighed again and changed the subject.

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 "My agents warned you to control your emotions, did they not?"  He clasped his hands behind his back once more and gazed out across the gardens.  "Why didn't you heed their advice?"

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 "I tried to."  Atharil studied his feet, his attention drawn to a small cut he'd received earlier in the day.  That such a minute detail should be included in the dream fascinated him.

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 Solas snorted.  "You tried?  You volunteered to be publicly flogged!"

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 Atharil's head snapped up.  "How do you know that?"

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 "I have been speaking with your Keeper for some time now, in much the same way we are speaking now."  He stepped away, following a winding gravel path, and Atharil trailed after him.

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 "He hasn't mentioned you."

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 Solas glanced back at him, his eyes sparkling.  "No, I don't imagine he has.  I have not allowed him to recall our conversations."

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 "You can do that?"  Atharil plucked a small flower from a bush, twirling the stem in his fingers as he walked.  Thankfully, the Creator no longer seemed to be in any rush.  They were strolling through the grounds rather than striding, and it was easy to keep pace.  "Is that how you knew what happened today?  Arinna told Tirsas, and Tirsas told you, in a dream?"

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 The ancient elf nodded.  "You had a narrow escape today -- one that made it clear I could no longer wait to see whether you would seek my assistance.  I could not risk losing you to Andruil."

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 Atharil blinked.  He almost thought he heard warmth in the Dread Wolf's voice, but he couldn't be certain.  Tipping his head forward, he cast a sidelong glance at the taller elf.  Solas's expression was unreadable.

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 "I can silence the Huntress from afar," the Creator continued.  "I am doing so right now, in fact.  But the effect will be temporary, lasting a few weeks at best.  To maintain your freedom, you must learn to shut her out of your mind for yourself."

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 "All right, show me." 

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 The corners of Solas's mouth twitched in amusement.  "It is a skill that requires a good deal of guidance and study to master, I'm afraid.  I cannot teach it to you here, despite your admirable eagerness to learn."

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 Atharil felt an uncomfortable weight settle in his stomach at the Creator's words.  He'd hoped the Dread Wolf had come to rescue him from Andruil's clutches, but it seemed he could only offer respite.  "Then I have no choice but to come to you, to answer your call.  Even if I don't want to...." 

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 Solas stopped beside a small fountain, tiny pink fish flitting just beneath the clear surface of the water.  "I can offer you the chance to help restore the elvhen world," he said quietly.  "Is that not what the Dalish desire most?"

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 Atharil had no words.  He opened his mouth to speak and shut it again.  "My daughter," he managed finally.  "I'll have to leave her behind."

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 "Will she survive if you stay?"  Solas laid a careful hand on the hunter's thin shoulder.  "Come to me, Atharil.  For your daughter's sake, as well as your own."

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 His tone was gentle, beseeching, and yet Atharil shivered at his touch.  He recalled the old tales of the Lord of Tricksters, whose honeyed words held traps for the unwary.  "What happened to my father, Solas?  How did Felassan die?"

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 The Creator withdrew his hand, his brows knit.  "Now is not the time to speak of it, Atharil.  I understand your curiosity, but we must focus on the matter at hand.  Once we are together physically, perhaps there will be opportunity --"

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 "You killed him...."  He gave voice to the realization as it struck him, not pausing to consider the wisdom of such an accusation.  The words left him like an exhalation, a thin whisper of shock and horror.  "Why?"

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 Solas turned away, but not before Atharil glimpsed dismay in his eyes.  "He tried to tell me something I was not ready to hear," he said, his voice thin.  "It was a terrible mistake."

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 Atharil felt the need to sit down, and suddenly there was a bench behind him.  He sank onto it, his throat tight.  "That the real reason I'm here, isn't it?  You did something you regret, and now you're trying to make up for it."

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 "No.  I can never make up for it."  He was silent for a moment before straightening his shoulders and continuing in a stronger tone.  "I don't know the exact moment Andruil gained influence over you, but I suspect it happened some time ago.  Yet she never made herself known directly, never truly revealed herself, until you encountered my agents.  Is that correct?"

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 Atharil nodded.  "I'd sensed her within me, but in ways I couldn't quite explain.  After that day, though, I felt her grow fiercer, more determined.  I could actually _hear _her speaking to me, telling me to do terrible things...."__

_____ _

_____ _

 Solas scowled.  "Before she learned of your parentage, you were merely a novelty to her, a pet upon which to slake her sadistic urges.  Once she discovered your connection to me, however --"

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_____ _

 "You think she's trying to hurt me because of you?" 

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_____ _

 "I am certain of it."  He turned, offering the hunter a wry smile.  "I am partly to blame for the grave danger in which you find yourself, da'len.  I cannot, in good conscience, abandon you to your fate.  _That _is the real reason you're here."  He hesitated.  "Though not the only one, perhaps."__

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_____ _

 Atharil blinked.  "What do you want of me?" he asked, wary.

_____ _

_____ _

 The Creator's sharp eyes flicked over him.  "You carry elvhen blood, Atharil, and yet this muted world is familiar to you -- you were born into it, and you understand it completely.  That is a rare and valuable combination.  Properly trained, I could make use of someone like you."

_____ _

_____ _

 "You could make use of me...." Atharil repeated.  The words tasted sour on his tongue.  "As you made use of my father, you mean.  You called him your 'slow arrow'.  He was your weapon.  Your tool."

_____ _

_____ _

 "He chose that name for himself, Atharil."  Solas ran a hand along the surface of the fountain, rippling the water.  The fish scattered.  "But yes, Felassan was useful to me for a very long time.  He was also a dear friend.  You may find that difficult to understand, but I assure you it is possible for someone to be both useful and... and important."  He had seemed about to say something else, and for a moment Atharil wondered if they were even discussing his father anymore.  He made no reply, but stared dully ahead, contemplating the path before him.  Solas waited, his patience seemingly endless in the comfort of the Fade.

_____ _

_____ _

 "You are not what I expected," the hunter managed at last, avoiding the Dread Wolf's gaze.  "You seem at once kinder and more cruel than the legends claim, and I can't decide whether I fear you less for having spoken with you, or more." 

_____ _

_____ _

 Solas nodded, accepting Atharil's words without extending either assurances or denials.  Instead, he offered a promise.  "Come to me, da'len, and I will awaken the potential in your blood.  You will learn the secrets of our people, and become who you are meant to be."

_____ _

_____ _

 Atharil could feel tendrils of magic stirring within him at the Creator's words.  It might have been merely the effects of the lyrium, but he guessed it was not.  "I cannot help you tear down the Veil, Solas," he said with difficulty, overcome by a wave of euphoria at the sensation.  It was as if he'd lived his whole life in pain without knowing it, and suddenly tasted relief.  "Your plans endanger people I care for.  People I love."

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_____ _

 "I know."  He sounded genuinely regretful.  "But for all your struggling, you cannot save them, Atharil.  Allow me to save you, instead, and together we will save the elvhen people."


End file.
